


Heart's A Mess

by Karellen



Series: Stolen Paintings, Stolen Hearts [1]
Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: (I mean it's Dmitri what do you expect), (Mush gents?? Any takers???), (because Gustave and Agatha are still alive), Angst and Humor, Dmitri is depressed and repressed, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Gratuitous use of the word 'darling', Gustave is a hoe, Gustave is happy and very bisexual, Happy AU, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Praise Kink, Zero and agatha are adorable, Zero is a good friend, if you don't expect poetry in this fic i don't know what to tell you, making delicious pastries, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karellen/pseuds/Karellen
Summary: Gustave H.? The richest man in Zubrowka.Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis? Disgraced and miserable.Agatha? Genius pastry chef.Zero? Still confused.





	1. A Prelude (From Endymion)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been obsessed with this film for months, so this was bound to happen eventually. Get comfortable, and get yourself something nice to drink, because this one's going to be a slow burn...

Spring was approaching, and the city of Lutz lay sleeping.

The night was unseasonably cold and dreary, and miserable weather tended to send Gustave into a state of contemplation. As the wind howled and the rain pattered against the windows of Schloss Lutz, he mulled over the events of his past year, and could only come to the conclusion that he had won.

To put it in those terms sounded egotistical – fate-tempting, even – but not only was he damned lucky to be alive, but the life he had kept was so absurdly wonderful that he wasn’t entirely sure if he had survived at all. Perhaps one of his many brushes with death had been less of a brush and more of a fatal blow, and he was now thoroughly enjoying himself in the afterlife. If that were the case, he thought, then years of tending to people’s needs had been worth it, if this were to be his reward.

On the other hand, he had bruised his shin on the corner of a coffee table this morning, and he had very nearly been mugged by a gang of youths a few weeks ago, and the gradually healing bullet wound in his right shoulder ached relentlessly.

So, unless God were in a particularly sadistic mood, it seemed most likely that he was indeed still alive – and, god damn it, he was going to enjoy himself.

More to the point, Zero was still alive, and this fact made the pain in his shoulder far more bearable – the pain in his soul would have far outweighed it, had he allowed his young protégé to come to harm. The boy was his brother, brought to him by what could only have been fate, and he would have allowed himself to be shot another dozen times if it meant saving Zero’s life.

 _Well_. He’d much rather not have been shot at all, but one had to make one’s sacrifices in life. It could have been worse, he supposed; he’d always favoured his left hand anyway, and the servants of Schloss Lutz were willing to give him far more assistance than he was used to. As a matter of fact, this had been rather difficult to adjust to; accustomed as he was to helping others, it took some effort to relax and let himself be helped.

He would insist upon returning his own plates to the kitchen, only to be interrupted by Clotilde, the grand house’s chief maid. The normally quiet young woman would quickly make her opinions heard if she caught him “over-exerting” himself. He couldn’t bring himself to feel irritated, however, not when her intentions were so pure.

‘My brother was once injured in the same way, sir,’ she had explained to him one morning, as he had rather awkwardly tried to make his bed one-handed, ‘You need to rest. He didn’t follow the doctor’s orders, and he is still sometimes in pain. We don’t want you in pain, sir.’

She was a charming woman, and he had liked her immediately. As a matter of fact, the staff who kept his new home had so far proven to be far more amicable than he had expected. He had the lingering suspicion that the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family hadn’t treated the help particularly well, given their initial surprise at his friendliness towards them. Clotilde in particular didn’t seem to have had a decent conversation with anyone in years.

So, for now, he was content. Once he had finally submitted to the persistent helpfulness of Clotilde et al, things became a lot easier. The only real inconvenience his shoulder caused him anymore was during his bedroom activities: as he was unable to support his own weight in that particular way, for the past few months his various paramours had had lie atop him during their lovemaking.

Actually, he retracted that statement: this was hardly an inconvenience at all. He was often expected to take control of proceedings - which was certainly enjoyable - but it was also pleasant to let his partners take the lead for a change.

He was thankful for his little flock of blonde, vain admirers. Though he had no longer had any need to seduce them for his own financial gain, he still enjoyed their company. Granted, most if not all of them loved him for his newly acquired wealth and what remained of his beauty, but this was where he was most comfortable, having had little experience with relationships which reached beyond the superficial. He loved them all as friends, and their attention had provided a welcome distraction during his recovery.

Constanzia de la Puente D’Antonio had several other middle names that Gustave couldn’t presently recall. She was only fifteen years his senior (young, by his standards), her husband had succumbed to consumption many years ago, and she wore red lipstick so often that the colour stained her lips even when she was bare-faced.

Her head rested against his good shoulder as he contemplated his existence, her long-taloned fingers stroking his chest, absent-mindedly. He, in turn, ran his fingers through her bleached hair; at this point in his life, it was an automatic response. Women like her craved intimacy – a fact which he couldn’t possibly judge her for, because so did he. Right on cue, Signora de la P-d-A leaned into his touch like a contented cat, and although he couldn’t remember all of her names, he felt as though he loved her.

Gustave, at heart, was not all too dissimilar from those whose affections he pursued. He was blonde (quite blonde, at least – he dyed his hair these days, refusing to fall victim to the ravages of age), in recent months he had become rich, and, at the edge of fifty, he was close to growing old. He no longer felt young, and although his newfound wealth could probably win him the attention of partners younger than himself, he found that the idea of this rather depressed him.

The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of his own age. He much preferred those who shared his insecurities. Perhaps that was unhealthy, he wasn’t sure, nor did he want to think about it at present. Constanzia wasn’t his psychiatrist, after all; she gave him comfort far more directly.

‘ _Amore mio_ …’ she sighed, interrupting his train of thought, ‘Are you alright? You’re looking off into the distance again.’

Oh shit. Had he been doing it again?

‘I was lost in thought, darling,’ he replied, ‘nothing more. You needn’t worry.’

Oh, he really shouldn’t be brooding at a time like this; everything was fine, for God’s sake.

‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I’d much rather be lost in your eyes.’

A terrible line, really, but she seemed flattered.

‘Oh, stop it’

‘My dear woman, I’m only being truthful’ he insisted, ‘they’re lovely.’

He felt inspired, in that moment, to do what he – in his own, humble opinion - did best.

' _A thing of beauty is a joy for ever_ ' he recited, digging up the sonnet from the depths of his long-term memory.

' _Its loveliness increases; it will never_

_Pass into nothingness; but still will keep_

_A bower quiet for us, and a sleep_

_Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing_ -‘

A pause – he winced as a slight jolt of pain shot down his arm. His pain was no longer overwhelming, but still very unpleasant; he greatly hoped that nothing had been permanently damaged.

‘Oh, my poor friend,’ Constanzia purred, her large green eyes aglow with sympathy, ‘Feel better soon, or I shall hardly be able to stand it’

‘I’ll try my very hardest’ he promised. ‘Sadly, I fear I’ll be left with rather a nasty scar, but that can’t be helped.’

‘Hmm’ she made a non-committal noise and relaxed against him again, ‘It makes you look brave, amore mio. All the best men have a few battle scars.’

Gustave very much appreciated the sentiment. He was about to finish reciting the Keats poem, but realised his lover had fallen asleep.

He was needy; he acknowledged that now. He had previously thought this descriptor only applied to his lovers, but his recovery had given him plenty of time to delve into things he was normally too busy to consider. Who was more insecure: the needy person, or the one who _needed_ to be needed?

But, oh, what a marvellous thing it was to be _wanted_. What he felt around Constanzia and her many amorous peers was more than just lust (though, he admitted, lust was undeniably a large part of it), it was validation. He felt important and necessary; he felt appreciated. He knew he was a vain old bastard, really, but at the very least he was liked.

Constanzia de la Puente D’Antonio’s body was warm, and the rain pattering against his window was calming, and he soon joined her in sleep and visited the halls of the Grand Budapest in his dreams.

Oh Zero, his dear friend – Gustave hoped to see him again soon.

 

**********

Otto was becoming a competent lobby boy, but still had the tendency to gossip a little too openly. Gossip was fine, Zero reminded him for the umpteenth time, but he had to keep it amongst the staff. He could hardly reprimand the boy – who was not much younger than himself – for being curious about the private lives of their guests. Everyone was. He himself had been curious, though he had been careful to conceal this fact from Monsieur Gustave (although, in retrospect, he was sure his mentor had indulged in more gossip than the entirety of his staff combined.)

Yes, the Duchess of Montpensier might have been having an affair, but it was really none of their business – it was their job to fetch her luggage and ensure she was comfortable and see to her every need. Señor Caminante might have been inviting wanton-looking young men into his room at night but, again, so long as he paid his bill at the end of his stay, what he did in private was none of their concern.   

In general, Zero wasn’t a judgemental person; his own best friend had decidedly loose morals, yet he was one of the greatest men he had ever known. Recalling his own days as a lobby boy, Zero could remember the wild rumours about the former concierge’s bedroom habits, spoken in hushed whispers amongst his fellow staff.

Well, amongst the younger staff, at least; for those who had worked there for many years, this was no longer news. It was simply accepted as a fact: the sky was blue, Mendl’s was the best patisserie around, and Monsieur Gustave H. was whoring himself out yet again. What else was new?

‘He visits Madame Claudette’s room a lot,’ he’d whispered to Igor, the tired-eyed lift operator, ‘I think he might be sleeping with her.’

And Igor had rolled his eyes and laughed, and Zero had wondered what was so funny.

‘Of course he’s sleeping with her’ Igor had explained, ‘She’s old and rich. He fucks all of them – always has, at least as long as I’ve been here.’

And Zero had blushed and stayed quiet and hadn’t quite been able to forget what Igor had told him every time he passed Gustave in the corridors. But, he had been more innocent back then: these days, after his frankly preposterous caper with Gustave, very little could faze him anymore.

As a recently-appointed concierge himself, Zero found that he could empathise with his old mentor more than ever. It was a tiring job, and dealing with difficult guests was par for the course, and he was busy almost all of the time. On the other hand, Gustave had been right: it was fulfilling to cater to other’s needs, and life at the Grand Budapest was never dull. Despite his young age, Zero had experienced several lifetimes’ worth of dread and endangerment, and he realised he wanted nothing more than to settle down.

A concierge’s life was hectic, but it was steady employment, and he had a roof over his head, and he feared death from neither rebel militia nor private assassins. All of this was good enough for him, and Agatha made it wonderful.

She needn’t have worked anymore; she lived with her husband at the hotel, and was well provided-for. However, instead of slowing down, she was instead making more of her beautiful edible creations than ever, having dedicated herself to perfecting her art. She truly was a genius; just as Zero thought she couldn’t possibly improve her recipes, she would come up with something new and incredible.

His beloved wife would split her time between working for Herr Mendl – the old baker was the closest thing to a father she had – and experimenting in the Grand Budapest’s kitchens. The guests were test subjects for her new ideas: the Duchess of Montpensier was particularly fond of the delicate, rose-flavoured petits fours, and even the severe-looking Mr Drinkwater was impressed by her apricot squares.

They weren’t rich by any means, but neither could have asked for more than they had. Neither had any family, and both dreamt of starting their own one day, but that would happen whenever it happened. For now they were happy as newlyweds – “happy” was, in fact, an understatement: they were infatuated with one another, and reeling from shock that their lives had turned out this well.

Despite this, one thought ate away at the back of Zero’s mind: he must find a way to visit Monsieur Gustave soon. His friend had been in a stable condition when they had last parted ways, and had assured him that he would be well taken care of at his new abode.

‘The Hotel needs you,’ he’d said, with a pained smile, ‘Dear Albert will take the two of you back, and you must go about getting your visa at once – we don’t want any more trouble.’

He hadn’t been able to repress his feeling of guilt; it was because of him that his friend had been hurt, and all of this could have been avoided. He’d voiced these concerns to Gustave, who had dismissed them.

‘Nonsense, Zero,’ he’d said, ‘You’ve saved my life before, haven’t you? All I’ve done is repay the favour – don’t worry about it any longer, dear boy.’

That had been several months ago. He _had_ worried about it. Whenever he’d had a spare moment to think of anything other than his work, his thoughts always strayed to Gustave. He hoped his friend wasn’t feeling too lonely at Schloss Lutz – actually, no, he probably wasn’t: he would surely have his bevy of glamourous older women to entertain him.

There’d been telephone calls in the following months, of course, and Zero had written him a carefully-worded letter (which Gustave later reported he had found very touching). However, until Zero’s visa application was approved, he didn’t want to risk travelling again, and he doubted Gustave felt much like taking the train to Nebelsbad considering how terrifying their last journey had been.

As he lay awake, Agatha lay her head against his chest; Mexico was over his heart. He adored her. God, how he loved her.

He would have to phone Gustave again in the morning.

**********

Down a dark and winding alley near the outskirts of Lutz, there stood a ramshackle tavern called The Bleeding Heart. It looked older than the city itself, and the bartender was missing an ear.

Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis sat in a shadowy corner; he had two black eyes, a bloody nose, and he was drinking as though the world were about to end.

 _His_ life had taken a definite turn for the worse.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The title is taken from 'Heart's A Mess' by Gotye - one of my favourite songs from the soundtrack of The Great Gatsby (which reminds me a lot of this film, both visually and thematically)  
> \- The poem Gustave tries (and yet again fails) to finish is 'from Endymion' by Keats (just in case you wanted to read the full thing - it's very him.)  
> (Until next time!)


	2. In the Mountains On a Summer Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gustave considers his emotional needs; Zero is an excellent concierge; Dmitri mopes.

Though he refused to let himself be stepped on by anyone, being unkind was not in Gustave’s nature. In his eyes, when one lived in an increasingly cruel and violent world, there was still great strength to be found in being gentle.

He showed Signora D’Antonio his affection once more before she left for Rome, not wanting to leave her wanting. He hoped to see her again soon, although he accepted that her family needed her more than he did. Her children and grandchildren would hopefully be missing her, and would give her the warm welcome she deserved upon her return.

He himself had no family to miss him; at various points in his life, he had found this fact either liberating or profoundly upsetting. On the one hand, he had no dependants, no-one to disappoint if he failed (save for himself), and he never had to share what was his.

On the other hand, it was easy to feel lonely. Previously, he had kept himself occupied during practically every waking hour, which had had the welcome side effect of keeping that regrettable feeling at bay. These days, as he wandered the empty halls of Schloss Lutz, that deep yearning for companionship was beginning to creep back, and even the friendliness of his staff wasn’t enough to soothe him.

Yes, that was it: he needed soothing. His goodbye embrace with Constanzia lasted longer than intended, and he kissed her more than was necessary. Perhaps another one of his admirers could fill the void left by this one’s absence – that had often worked for him in the past. Going from lover to lover was his normal, and he didn’t see anything particularly wrong with it: they wanted him, he desired them in turn, and both parties were - invariably - satisfied.

Gustave had fucked an awful lot of people to get where he was today.

He had even loved some of them.

He supposed it wouldn’t, theoretically, be too late for him to start a family if he truly wanted to. He was old, but he wasn’t _that_ old, in the scheme of things. He could still find some charming younger woman and have children with her, but the idea didn’t exactly appeal to him. Despite having been a figurehead at the Grand Budapest, he had never envisioned himself as the head of a household.

What would he be like as a husband? Good lord, what would he be like as a father? He didn’t need the pressure of being a role model, and children were messy and chaotic, and notoriously bad at holding conversations on intellectual matters. And marriage was a commitment, and the idea of spending the rest of his life with just one person was more daunting than it was romantic, and all in all the whole thing seemed like an utterly terrible idea, and one that was best left to other people.

Oh, all this moping simply wouldn’t do. He would have to find something to do, or he would go mad. Excessive luxury and mindless hedonism were...well, very fun, undeniably, but he longed for a purpose in life. He needed to do things for people, damn it! He needed to be helpful and appreciated and necessary again.

Fortunately, he couldn’t allow himself to mope for too long, because at that very moment Clotilde scampered into the room to announce that the telephone in his office was ringing.

The voice on the other end of the line lifted his spirits immediately.

‘Zero!’ he exclaimed, ‘How _are_ you, dear boy?”

‘I’m fine, sir,’ came the reply, ‘I’m busy, but I’m fine. Are you feeling any better?’

 ‘Oh, I’m still a little sore, but it’s nothing too agonising – in time I’ll be as right as rain. You’re not overworking yourself, are you? You mustn’t let yourself get burnt out, darling; you always strive for excellence, and I know that can be awfully taxing.’

‘I’m trying to pace myself - thank you, sir.’

‘I’ve told you, Zero,’ Gustave said, switching the phone clumsily from his sore shoulder to his good one, ‘You needn’t call me “Sir” anymore. I owe you my life.’

Oh goddamn it, he was choking up. He swallowed hard, and regained his composure.

‘I’m sorry s- Monsieur Gustave’ said Zero.

‘That’s quite alright,’ said Gustave, ‘And whilst you’re at it, you needn’t apologise so often. You have nothing to apologise for, not with me. I…’ he swallowed hard again, and felt the moisture welling up in his eyes, ‘I’m so very proud of you, Zero.’

Their conversation was long and full of tangents: Zero told Gustave about Mr. Drinkwater’s incident with the lemon meringue pie and the champagne glasses, and Gustave ended up recounting his tale of nearly getting stabbed in Lisbon as a young man. It was obvious to both that neither wanted to end the phone call, but eventually Zero was needed urgently on the fourth floor, and Gustave knew he had to let the young man attend to his duties.

Goddamn. _Goddamn_. He was saying entirely too many goodbyes today. Talking to Zero had improved his mood but, on the other hand, it had made him all the more aware that he hadn’t spoken to his friend face-to-face in months.

Oh, fuck it. The drive to Nebelsbad was long, but if he set off soon he could be there before nightfall. His chauffeur – Clarence – probably wouldn’t be all too pleased about making such a long journey, but he would be paid overtime for it, and Gustave didn’t feel up to travelling by train again just yet.

His near-death experience had shaken him more than he was willing to admit. He was thoroughly nervous whenever he had to travel these days, though he hid it well. Whenever he walked past police in the street, he was transported back to that moment: lying on the floor of a train carriage, bleeding out in Zero’s arms.

He had been certain that he was going to die.

His only solace had been that he wouldn’t die alone: he had been both numb and terrified, but Zero’s kind face and anguished words of reassurance had calmed him as he lay there, on the edge of death. He hadn’t felt ready to leave, but if his friend’s face were to be the last thing he ever saw, he could think of worse ways to go.

But, against all odds, he was alive now, and he decided at once that he had languished far too long in his new home. Resolute, he went up to his room and started packing a bag. It wouldn’t be a long journey, so he would only need the essentials: clothes, toiletries, some _L’Air de Panache_ – he liked to travel light. Still, there was just enough room left in his bag for a small book of poetry, which he would give to Zero upon his arrival.

It was time for him to pay a visit to the Grand Budapest Hotel: his old home, his empire, and now the refuge of the only family he had.

**********

In his present situation, it would have been far wiser to avoid getting into fights but, sadly, he had never been much of a pacifist. Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis had his talents, but talking his way out of conflict was not amongst them. Under Jopling’s watchful eye, this wasn’t exactly a skill he’d ever had to learn – most, if not all, of his would-be opponents had been too intimidated by the Private Investigator to make their move, and those who _had_ tried their luck had been swiftly dispatched.

But Jopling was gone now, and although Dmitri didn’t have a bad right hook, he was nowhere near as skilled in combat as his bodyguard had been. He made bad decisions, especially when he was drunk – his multiple bruises were proof enough of that. These days, however, he needed a way to forget his troubles, and alcohol worked in the short-term even if it did cause him more long-term issues.

Like those _fucking_ black eyes. His face _hurt_ – everything fucking hurt – and he was fully aware of how awful he looked. He was gaunt and deathly pale and looked as though he hadn’t got a proper night’s sleep in months, because he _hadn’t._

Technically, he supposed, it could have been worse. He hadn’t been held culpable for that old bitch’s murder, after all – Jopling had instead been ruled responsible, which was at least somewhat true. In the court of public opinion, however, he had very much been ruled guilty, which was perhaps even worse. Prison might have been better than living free as a pariah.

At least his sisters still loved him. Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina were nothing but sympathetic to his plight, and were happy to house him at their (regrettably medium-sized) residence in Warsaw. It was opulent enough, he supposed, but it felt like a fucking cottage compared to their old family home. Yes, if the walls of Schloss Lutz could talk, they would recount tales of his own miserable, neglected childhood, but he couldn’t help but miss the place regardless.

It should have been his.

Sometimes, he had to get away from his family. He had a little money left, stowed away in a second (not technically illegal) bank account, which he would use solely to drink and run away from his problems. He was by no means rich, and he couldn’t afford to live alone for any substantial length of time, but he’d felt the need to return to his home city.

For the next week, he would have his tiny, bare-bones hotel room on the outskirts of town, and he would try his best not to look east, where his old home peeked over the horizon like a mocking sunrise.

And he would drink himself to sleep, haunted by memories of his youth, but more so by his memories of that wretched, _wretched_ man who had taken everything from him.

As far as Dmitri was concerned, Gustave H. could go fuck himself.

**********

As the sun set on Nebelsbad, its final rays stained the pale pink façade of the Grand Budapest a deep crimson. The evening was a mild and pleasant epilogue to what had been the first truly hot day of the year, and a lazy atmosphere permeated the hotel’s interior.

Having finished his dinner with his employees – _his_ employees, that still sounded surreal to him – he was taking a brief moment of relaxation out on the great building’s steps, enjoying the pleasant weather.

_Gently I stir a white feather fan,_

_With open shirt sitting in a green wood._

_I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;_

_A wind from the pine-tree trickles on my bare head._

It was a Chinese poet, Li Po, who had written those words many, many centuries ago, and this evening Zero had recited them to his staff before they ate together. He had decided to keep up Monsieur Gustave’s old tradition but, as a compromise, the poems he chose to read were much shorter, much to the staff’s relief.

At first, it had just been part of his efforts to emulate his predecessor as much as possible, but now he found he rather enjoyed it; it was like saying grace to the beauty of the spoken word. Sometimes he would choose the poems, and at other times Agatha would pick one – she would cycle down to the Nebelsbad library and seek them out, carefully copying them into her notebook and bringing them back to him.

She had picked that evening’s poem.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of an approaching motorcar – doubtless an arriving guest, Zero thought. No reservations had been made for that night, and unexpected visitors were always exciting to him. After a few years of working in this business, he thought, this probably wouldn’t be the case, but for now he found it fascinating to meet new people. All types came to stay at the Grand Budapest, so he never knew what to anticipate from each new arrival.

Still, promptness and a warm welcome were appreciated by most; as the car ground to a halt, he rushed forward to greet his new guest.

As it transpired, though, this new arrival was no stranger: Zero’s heart leapt as Monsieur Gustave climbed out of the car. Zero locked eyes with his friend for the first time since their parting in November, and there was a brief pause from both as their minds quickly processed recognition, realisation, reunion.

And, finally, relief.

‘Sir- Monsieur Gustave!’

All pretence of professionalism was dropped immediately as Zero flung himself into his mentor’s arms (carefully, so as to avoid hurting him). As Gustave held him – firmly with his left arm, and gently with his right – Zero was momentarily lost for words.

‘Oh, Zero,’ he heard Gustave sigh, ‘I’m terribly sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming, but I did it on impulse. I just had to see you. I had to, Zero; it’s been too long, dear boy, far too long…’

‘It’s good to have you back’ said Zero, ‘I- I was just taking a quick break out here, sir, I wasn’t slacking off, I just thought-‘

‘Oh, Zero, Zero,’ Gustave held up a hand to silence him, ‘don’t pay it any mind. I’m so happy to see you. And in that uniform! It suits you, dear boy, it really does – I’m still not quite used to seeing you like this.’

‘I’m not sure I am either’ Zero confessed.

‘You’re wonderful’ Gustave assured him, ‘Frankly, with such excellent training, you couldn’t _not_ be, could you?’

Zero couldn’t help himself from mirroring his mentor’s smile; Gustave’s happiness was contagious, especially when it was so genuine. He looked tired, and a little gaunter than he had before his injury, but when he smiled none of that seemed to matter anymore.

The arrival of the former concierge caused quite a stir amongst the hotel’s staff, and evoked mixed emotions in most of them. Those who had worked alongside him for a while were very pleased to see him again, whereas the newer staff rushed about in an attempt to look as busy as possible, assuming he was there to give the place a surprise inspection.

After all, he _did_ own the Grand Budapest now, and the man’s fastidiousness was legendary.

Fortunately, Gustave was in good spirits, and praised the establishment to such an extent that Zero was left blushing. Just as Zero wasn’t quite used to seeing himself as a concierge, it was strange to see Gustave at the hotel for pleasure rather than business. Zero supposed he would have to get used to seeing the man dressed in colours other than purple.

Quickly, as Gustave said his hellos to a few of his old colleagues, Zero ran down to the kitchens to fetch Agatha – he was sure she’d be delighted by Gustave’s arrival, as the man was almost a father-in-law to her (or a brother-in-law… Zero still wasn’t sure which familial role was filled by his dear friend).

‘Agatha!’ he announced, ‘Monsieur Gustave’s here! He’s come back!’

Agatha’s mouth dropped open, and the piping bag fell from her small hands – it hit the work surface, sending a spray of icing sugar over the front of her blouse.

‘Really?’ she asked, ‘Oh, I would’ve made him something!’

‘I’m sure he’ll just be glad to see you’ said Zero, ‘He’s in the lobby, come on.’

Their reunion was sweet – quite literally, in fact, as Gustave was so quick to embrace the young pastry chef that icing sugar was smeared onto his shirt and jacket. Agatha tried to apologise, but he stopped her; a damp cloth would bring that right off, and besides, a mark on his clothes was a small price to pay for an embrace from such a lovely young woman and a dear, dear friend.

‘Don’t flirt with my wife’ Zero interjected and, after an awkward pause, all three of them laughed. There was an awful lot of catching up to be done, and Gustave needed a drink and a room and something to eat, all of which Zero would see to straight away. They may have no longer been co-workers but, deep down, Zero still felt the need to impress him.

Reluctantly, Zero broke away from their conversation to run a couple of errands: he didn’t want to abandon Gustave, but nor did he want the man to see him neglecting his duties. The ever-unfortunate Mr. Drinkwater had broken another vase, and Zero had to make sure Gustave’s room was in an acceptable state, and the Duchess of Montpensier rather wanted to be introduced to their new visitor.

 _Oh god_ , Zero thought. She _was_ old, and wealthy, and blonde. _Should_ he introduce her to Gustave, despite knowing full well what this would lead to?

Sure enough, Gustave kissed her hand and showered her with compliments, and Zero mused that if the woman hadn’t already been cheating on her husband, she was probably about to do so in the very near future.

Across the lobby, Zero gazed over at Igor; both pairs of eyes rolled in unison.

Nevertheless, if Gustave were back to his old womanising self, Zero reasoned he must be on the mend. Besides, it was thanks to a woman similar to the Duchess that Gustave was now rich – albeit after many, many misadventures.

But all of that was over now, and Gustave was here in the flesh, and Zero was overwhelmingly happy. Things were alright now, weren’t they? Perhaps he could finally relax.

Life could be perilous and cruel but, god, it could be wonderful as well.

**********

His return to the Grand Budapest Hotel was, it seemed, exactly what Gustave needed to lighten his mood. Admittedly, it was difficult to resist the urge to help out his fellow guests with every little thing, but now that he was here to enjoy himself he was able to appreciate the place’s beauty even more. During his years as one of the institution’s employees, he had grown used to it, but as he regarded it again after such a long break, he could only conclude that his former workplace was… _truly_ heavenly.

Zero, he noted, was doing an excellent job of keeping the place in check; he was the concierge that this wonderful establishment deserved. Even Clarence – who was feeling quite exhausted and irritable after the long drive – had to admit that the boy was charming. Gustave saw to it that the chauffeur was given dinner and a room, and insisted upon paying for him. It was the least he could do as thanks; Clarence _had_ helped him to re-unite with his family, after all.

They _were_ his family. Zero and Agatha may not have been related to him by blood, but the more he thought about it, the less this seemed to matter. He loved them, and they loved him: _that_ was what really mattered.

Sweet, darling Agatha was also developing her talents. The great parcel of pastries she had sent to Schloss Lutz last Christmas had been a great comfort when his injury had been at its worst. That constant, nagging pain had diminished his appetite, but he was _always_ in the mood for Mendl’s; he had been so incredibly moved.

(Clotilde had been quite concerned when she’d found him in front of the fire, sobbing into his glass of brandy).

Seeing the young couple together never failed to warm his heart. His first impression of Agatha had clearly been accurate, and she and Zero were wonderfully compatible. Their love was woven into their voices as they spoke together, and written on their faces each time their eyes met; they were so young and full of life, and they were everything he himself was not. They were beautiful together, really – the stuff of poetry. He could have only dreamt of such a love at that age.

Furthermore, the Duchess of Montpensier proved to be excellent company. He had managed to catch her attention even as a tired-looking newly arrived guest with icing sugar on his jacket – it was _not_ cocaine, he had assured her, which had worked surprisingly well as an icebreaker.

He was remarkably pleased when they conversed over drinks, with him recounting his latest adventure and her hanging on his every word (the story of how he had found his fortune was - if he did say so himself – an entertaining one, and one that he was ready to tell anyone at the slightest provocation).

He was even _more_ pleased when she dragged him back to her suite, pinned him to the chaise lounge, and had her way with him. He _did_ love it when they showed initiative; it made him feel desirable, which was only becoming more difficult as he aged.

Evidently, he still had it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The poem Zero reads to his staff has the same name as this chapter's title - since his original homeland is outside of Europe, I liked the idea that he'd be interested in poetry from all sorts of different cultures.  
> \- Gradually, we're going to get more and more detail about what, exactly, has been happening in the months between Gustave being shot and the events told in this story (I just don't want to drop a whole lot of exposition on you at once).  
> \- I just... really love the idea of Gustave being happy for Zero and Agatha (and I mean, it's canonical).  
> \- The Desgoffe-und-Taxis clan are shady as FUCK, so I thought they'd definitely be able to pull some strings and get themselves off the hook for Madame D's very obvious murder (but the general public definitely wouldn't buy it).


	3. Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gustave encounters a few old acquaintances.

Technically, Zubrowka no longer existed as an independent state, but it lived on in the hearts of its citizens: no tanks or soldiers or hastily-signed peace treaties could succeed in erasing the people’s collective memory. The world was changing, but some things would always remain the same.

Gustave’s loyalty to his friends was one of them.

On the second night of his stay in Nebelsbad, he was finally able to converse freely with his busy young protégé. He poured Zero a drink as they sat out on the balcony, watching the stars and enjoying the stillness of the night air.

‘I worry sometimes’ Zero confessed, ‘About the little things, I suppose. And sometimes about bigger things as well.’

Gustave didn’t want to worry Zero any further, but nor did he want to lie to him. Assuring the boy that the future would definitely be bright and full of joy seemed, to him, dishonest. _No-one_ knew what was in store for the former Republic of Zubrowka, so he sure as hell didn’t.

‘There’s no use in worrying’ he sighed, ‘It’s understandable, yes, but it’s better not to waste one’s energy. Whatever will happen will happen. And whatever _does_ happen, Zero,’ he added, ‘I’ll be there for you. I promise.’

Zero smiled, sadly.

‘Thank you. I don’t know what any of us can do, but thank you. I’ll be there for you too.’

‘I know you will’ Gustave replied, ‘You always are.’

‘We’re brothers,’ said Zero, ‘but I just hope we never have to be brothers in arms.’

‘You have such a way with words.’

‘Thank you. I get it from you.’

‘Thank you.’

It was difficult. Occasionally, Gustave was forced to admit that he didn’t have all the answers, and this was one of those situations. He could advise Zero on matters concerning the proper running of a hotel, yes, but maintaining positivity in the face of a looming fascist regime? If he couldn’t manage to do that himself, it couldn’t possibly be expected of the boy.

 _The boy had seen his family die_.

It was easy to forget this fact, what with Zero’s impressive composure, but Gustave’s heart ached as he recalled how much his young friend had lost. He had fled from one war, and now his new homeland seemed to be on the brink of another.

What was there to say?

‘We’ve been at war before’ said Gustave, after a long pause, ‘I have money now. If things get worse, there’s always the option of leaving. Going somewhere safe.’

‘You’d do that for me?’ Zero asked, looking bewildered.

‘Of course I would’ said Gustave, ‘Listen, Zero: if I end up having to run and hide – which is unlikely at the moment, but nevertheless a possibility – I couldn’t possibly, in good conscience, leave you and Agatha behind. We’re family.’

Just like that, he had his arms around Zero again.

‘You’re a good man’ Zero’s voice faltered as he spoke, ‘We’ll make it through. I know it.’

‘That’s the spirit’ said Gustave, with a tired smile, ‘Those authoritarian bastards might _think_ they’re powerful, but you and I? We can be clever, Zero, and that’s far more important.’

They broke free from their embrace, but Gustave kept one arm around Zero’s shoulders, shielding him from the sudden cool breeze. He was so small – just barely a man, and still more resembling a boy. How could such strength come from one so young? Casting his mind back to _his_ eighteen-year-old self, Gustave concluded that he couldn’t have dealt with even half of the struggles Zero had overcome.

‘I don’t have any family, myself’ he said, observing the crescent moon, ‘Haven’t for a long while. I don’t think I ever told you that.’

‘You didn’t’ said Zero, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you. Of course, at my age, I’m used to it. Not exactly “at peace”, perhaps, but…’ he finished his drink in one long sip, ‘…But something, at least.’

‘I suppose we’re not so different’ Zero suggested.

‘Hm. Perhaps’ said Gustave, ‘Although, for what it’s worth, you’re most certainly the better person.’

‘I’m not so sure about that’ said Zero, ‘I’m not proud of everything I’ve done.’

From the sheer sadness in Zero’s voice, Gustave feared that their conversation was about to take a rather dark turn. The poor boy looked haunted, and suddenly much older than his years.

‘I suppose no-one ever is’ said Gustave, patting Zero’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. The pause that followed, however, was a decidedly _un_ comfortable one.

It _was_ a beautiful view, though – the pale, jagged mountains and vast ink-blue sky. Faint whispers of late-night conversations drifted down from the floors above them but, aside from that, all was quiet.

‘I killed a man.’

The boy’s statement left a deafening silence in its wake; Gustave didn’t know how to respond.

‘Well…’ he began, and then stopped, mulling over his choice of words, ‘Do you – uh – do you mean Jopling? That was a matter of life and death, dear boy – you can’t blame yourself for that. You saved my life, and quite possibly your own, so there’s really no need to…’

He trailed off as he noticed that Zero was shaking his head. Oh dear: he was biting his lip, and his wide, dark eyes were wet with tears. This couldn’t be good.

‘Back home’ he said, in a small voice, ‘One of the rebel soldiers. He…he wasn’t much older than me. And he would have stopped me from leaving…I _had_ to survive – I knew I had nothing to lose.’

Zero drew a deep breath; a small fraction of it came out as a barely-audible sob.

‘So I shot him. I shot him, and I ran, and I ended up here’ he blurted out, as though speaking quickly would make the confession less painful. ‘And I still think about him sometimes. I don’t think I’d be here today if I hadn’t killed him. But I _did_ kill him, all the same…and I never want to have to do that again.’

Gustave’s mind raced as he struggled to decide how best to comfort Zero, but the boy collapsed into his arms and made that decision for him. Although Zero didn’t make a sound, the rapid rise and fall of his chest made it clear that he was crying.

‘Oh, Zero…’ Gustave sighed, holding him close; Zero rose up on the balls of his feet to rest his head against his mentor’s shoulder.  ‘It’s alright. It’s alright…You _are_ a good person, and an excellent concierge, and a _dear_ friend, and…’

He hadn’t been prepared for this sudden flood of emotions, but it was really best to let these things out, lest one later regretted what had been left unsaid. When Zero drew back, his eyes were glistening and stress-reddened; Gustave’s hands rested on his narrow shoulders.

‘…And if I’d ever had a son,’ Gustave continued, ‘Well…I’d be proud if he turned out like you.’

Zero smiled through his tears, and bashfully cast his eyes downwards.

‘It’s gonna be okay’ he muttered, and Gustave wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to reassure, ‘We’re going to be fine.’

They sat and watched the stars for a while longer, before Zero finally retired to his room – after all, he had to work in the morning. Gustave hoped that Agatha would offer the boy some comfort; he assumed so, if their public displays of affection were any reflection of how they behaved in private.

Sometimes, one just needed to be held.

The Duchess of Montpensier’s name was Eloise. Gustave had only discovered this _after_ they had made love – although, to be fair, she _had_ been rather insatiable, and he hadn’t wanted to spoil the moment with an interjection of ‘Excuse me, Madame, but what _is_ your name?’

Well, at any rate, it was Eloise. He wondered if he should go to Eloise’s room and seek some comfort of his own, but ultimately he decided against it. His conversation with Zero had left him with a lot to think about and, frankly, sex was the last thing on his mind. It would probably be best for both of them if he stayed in his own room – he was feeling far too distracted and emotional to _manage_ it, as it were, and didn’t want to leave her disappointed.

God, he was getting old. As a younger man, he would have leapt at the opportunity. Instead, he took a bath, studied a few chapters of his book, and fell asleep.

He could always visit her in the morning.

**********

By the time his stay at the Grand Budapest was over, Gustave felt well-rested and fulfilled in every possible sense. He would be back soon, he decided; the hotel still felt more like home to him than Schloss Lutz did, but he had only packed his suitcase for a short stay, and would have to return to the old house eventually.

His farewell to Zero was far more cheerful than the last time they had parted. For one thing, Gustave didn’t feel near the brink of death. Additionally, Zero seemed far happier for having had an extra shoulder to cry on, and Gustave felt better for having played this role.

And, ah! The book of poems! Gustave had nearly forgotten to give it to him. He retrieved it from his luggage, and rushed up the front steps to catch up with Zero.

‘One last thing,’ he said, presenting the book to his friend, ‘For you. And for your co-workers, before dinner – thank you for keeping up that little tradition of mine.’

They shared one last, quick goodbye before Gustave joined a slightly less irritable Clarence in the car and began the journey back to Lutz.

It was, on all accounts, a pleasant drive: the weather was mild, and the late spring landscape was green and illustrious. Gustave was gripped by the desire to compose a poem – if only he’d thought to bring a pen with him.

Had they not been forced to stop at a service station for fuel, the whole journey might have continued peacefully.

Being held at gunpoint hadn’t been on Gustave’s agenda but, as he wandered away from the car to admire his surroundings, the unmistakeable click of a cocking pistol told him that, _oh_ – alright - _this_ was happening now.

Instinctively, he raised his hands. He was _not_ going to be shot again, goddamn it: he’d only just started to heal from his last bullet wound. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his adversary: a small man, his face covered with a balaclava – hopefully just a common criminal, after his wallet instead of his life.

‘Empty your pockets’ the man ordered, his voice muffled.

‘Now, now,’ said Gustave, fighting to keep his voice calm as he turned his pockets inside out, ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

He didn’t – he _really_ didn’t. Good god, it was difficult not to panic: he knew how easily he could die, and how much it would hurt. Was this assailant fate itself, finally catching up to him?

To his surprise, the man didn’t rush forward to steal his belongings away, and instead appeared to be lowering his gun.

‘Turn around’ he said, and his tone was less authoritative this time around.

Slowly, Gustave complied, and a thought occurred: the man’s voice sounded familiar, though he wasn’t sure _where_ he had heard it before.

‘Oh, _fuck_!’ the man exclaimed, as their eyes met, ‘Monsieur Gustave!’

The man pulled off his balaclava, and it was Gustave’s turn to be surprised.

‘Holy shit!’ he exclaimed, ‘Pinky Bandinski! How _are_ you, dear boy?’

‘Oh, you know how it is,’ said Pinky, returning his gun to its holster, ‘Things’ve been rough. Me and the boys’ve been sticking together – finding work hasn’t exactly been easy, and we need to get money somehow, so…’ he shrugged.

‘Understandable’ said Gustave, ‘But please don’t point a gun at me again, darling – I’ve been in that situation more than enough already.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Gustave said, patting him on the shoulder, ‘You’ve been a very great help to me, and I’d be happy to give you some financial assistance – so long as it’s not at gunpoint, of course. Where are the rest of you?’

‘We’re moving between inns at the moment,’ Pinky explained, ‘Splitting meals between us - stealing what we can… you get used to it after a while.’

Now, these men were undoubtedly morally suspect, but Gustave couldn’t help but feel sorry for them; _yes_ , he _had_ beaten the shit out of Pinky mere moments after meeting him, but all that was in the past. You couldn’t plan a prison break with someone without becoming at least somewhat fond of them. Just as he had always maintained, sometimes the most difficult, unlikeable people only needed a modicum of love and acceptance to feel comfortable showing their vulnerabilities. So far, in his life, this had always proven to be true.

As he took all this into consideration, an idea formed in Gustave’s mind. It was a strange plan, but the _world_ was strange, and growing more so daily, so it was worth a try.

And so it was thanks to Gustave’s boundless compassion that he found himself on the road to Lutz, crammed into a car with three ex-convicts and one disgruntled chauffeur. It sounded like the beginning of a folk song. It was funny how these things happened.

‘Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, Gus’ said Ludwig from the front seat, where Clarence was eyeing him warily, ‘You’re a good man. Always had you figured as a decent sort.’

‘It’s my pleasure, Ludwig,’ said Gustave, ‘Think nothing of it – I _could_ do with some rough types to handle intruders. When one comes into money, one must protect oneself, after all.’

‘I wouldn’t know’ said Ludwig, with a dry laugh.

‘Well, you’ll be living in the lap of luxury from now on, gentlemen,’ said Gustave, ‘Although, I’m nearly as unaccustomed to it as you are. At the very least, I’ll have some company now.’

There _was,_ of course, the little matter of these men being on the run from the law, but Schloss Lutz was an immense house, and he wasn’t opposed to letting them hide there for a while until the heat died down. Yes, it was illegal, but they were his friends.

Besides, if the former Republic’s police force grew any stricter, he would probably end up breaking the law eventually anyway, so he reasoned that he may as well start rebelling against the authorities now.

Much to Clarence’s displeasure, about half-way through their journey the four passengers burst into song. Pinky’s singing voice, Gustave noted, was surprisingly lovely, and at times they even managed some quite impressive harmonies. Never before had having a gun pointed at him lead to anything so enjoyable.

Time flew by, and they soon found themselves driving through the outskirts of Lutz; it was a beautiful city, and Gustave had asked Clarence to take them on the more scenic route home so he could admire all those interesting little streets. Lutz was big, and it was _old_ , and this was never more evident than in the city’s darker, less-explored districts. He wouldn’t have much enjoyed exploring these areas on foot, but from within the safe confines of a car it was truly fascinating to –

Gustave was distracted when his eyes fell upon a pitiful-looking man, lying dejectedly against an old stone wall. A pitiful, _familiar_ -looking man. Well, today _did_ seem to be the day for reconciling with old acquaintances.

 _Shit_. Those long limbs, and that hair…it couldn’t be, could it? What would _he_ be doing in Lutz, of all places?

‘Clarence,’ said Gustave, ‘Stop the car for a moment, would you, darling?’

He hopped out of the back seat; the former inmates, sensing trouble, also left the car and lurked behind him, ready to come to his aid if necessary.

Slowly, Gustave approached the crumpled heap of a man, and as he grew closer there could be no doubt: although the man at his feet was paler and sicklier than he remembered, he was still, undeniably…

‘Dmitri?’

**********

Dmitri _hurt –_ far more so than he had a few days ago. He ached everywhere: his bruised face was sore, his poor, hungover head throbbed with every beat of his heart and, if he’d been in a slightly more lucid state, the stabbing pain in his side might have concerned him but, for now, all he could bring himself to do was curl up and accept it.

All things considered, he probably deserved this. It wasn’t as though he’d lead the most virtuous of lives. Perhaps Lutz, once his home, would now be his purgatory. He’d tried his best to stay out of trouble… no, that was a lie, who was he kidding – he’d yelled in the face of a man who’d probably weighed twice as much as him, and had had the shit kicked out of him again.

Something was probably broken. He might have been agile enough to dodge the man’s blows _if_ he’d been sober, which he hadn’t.

He might die here. He’d resigned himself to that possibility a couple of hours ago. He didn’t have the strength to drag himself back to his dingy little hotel room, and even if he _had,_ he might have died there anyway.

His vision was blurred from lack of sleep and… just general malaise – certainly _not_ from tears; he still had _some_ dignity, and absolutely refused to start weeping openly. He was a _man,_ for fuck’s sake! Perhaps he was a little delirious, but the slightly faded image of the alleyway in front of him was… kind of pretty. All the lights, spreading out, and the orange glow of the setting sun.

It was nice.

He was distantly aware of a car pulling up nearby, and the silhouette of a man approaching him. He really _must_ have been delirious, because his first thought was:

_Oh shit – I really am dying, and here comes my guardian angel._

Until, of course, his vision focused properly, and he realised who was coming to investigate him.

Oh, holy _fuck_.

_HIM._

‘Dmitri?’ said Gustave _fucking_ H. in his breathy little voice, and Dmitri was immediately dragged back to reality by the sheer force of his rage.

‘ _YOU!_ ’ he yelled, and propelled himself forward with the sole intention of pummelling the man’s face to a bloody pulp, but instead collapsed at his feet, moaning in pain.

That motherfucker didn’t even seemed fazed, god-fucking- _damn_ him! He just took a step backwards, with that maddening look of concern on his face.

‘Son of a _bitch_!’ Dmitri groaned, clutching at his side, ‘What…What the fuck are you doing here? Come to gloat, have you, you fucking fruit? Want to see me at my worst?’

‘Not at all,’ _he_ said - the sympathy in his voice had Dmitri seeing red - ‘I’m quite surprised to see you here at all; I assumed you’d want to get as far away from here as possible, given all the… unpleasantness.’

‘Lutz,’ Dmitri slurred, drunk on anger and pain (and, admittedly, still from alcohol), ‘Is my fucking home, you queer. If you don’t want to run into me, maybe _you_ can leave! Run on back to your hotel and leave me the fuck alone.’

But that man, that absolute _bastard_ , he just wouldn’t go! The sheer audacity of this queer – it was _his_ fault that Dmitri was in this state to begin with, and now he had the nerve to offer his sympathy!

‘You’re hurt’ said Gustave, stating the obvious.

‘ _Really?_ ’ Dmitri hissed, ‘What the fuck gave you _that_ idea? Jesus Christ, you missed your calling, you should’ve been a goddamn fruity little doctor.’

Dmitri refused to look at Gustave’s face, and instead focused on his well-polished shoes, which looked expensive, and had almost definitely been bought with _his_ fucking inheritance.

‘Oh, you’re in a terrible state,’ Gustave continued, ignoring what Dmitri had _thought_ had been a rather scathing insult, ‘Do you need a lift to the hospital at all? Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?’

What, Dmitri wondered, was the catch? There had to be one; he’d never given Gustave any reason to be this kind to him. The man _must_ have been expecting something in return, it was the only explanation.

‘” _Somewhere to sleep”,’_ he echoed, mockingly, ‘You want to fuck me, is that it? You want to fuck me like you fucked my mother, you faggot?’

‘Now, I think we’ve discussed the contradictory nature of that statement’ said Gustave, ‘If you must insult me, dear boy, at least _try_ to make it make sense,’

 _“Dear boy”_. Dmitri could throttle him.

‘Okay, then,’ he said, ‘Do you want to fuck me like you fucked my mother, you _bisexual_?’

Allegedly, the former concierge swung both ways, though Dmitri was honestly surprised that someone who went around looking like _that_ fucked women at all. Gustave H. looked, in every sense, like someone who fucked men, or was possibly fucked _by_ them, and Dmitri wasn’t sure which of these possibilities he found more distasteful.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Dmitri,’ Gustave retorted, ‘I have plenty of willing partners without having to stoop to your level. No, I simply don’t enjoy seeing you suffer.’

‘What?’ said Dmitri, ‘I _hate_ you, old man – you must be getting a kick out of this.’

‘I can promise you, I’m not.’

‘You can pile on the fake pity all you fucking want, but you _are_. You _love_ this, don’t you?’

‘We’re not on the best of terms,’ Gustave admitted, ‘but, right now, I see a man in considerable pain, and I’m offering to help him.’

Dmitri groaned again and, agonisingly, tried to climb to his feet, bracing himself against a nearby lamppost. He was so tired: it took almost all of his energy just to stand up. He felt dreadful and, god, he just couldn’t protest anymore.

‘If I let you help me,’ he said, finally looking Gustave in the eye ‘Do you promise to get off my fucking case?’

‘Certainly’ said Gustave, ‘I apologise in advance – it’s rather cramped in the car, I’m afraid, but you won’t be in there for long.’

What followed was one of the more humiliating experiences of Dmitri’s life, as he lay across the laps of three men in the back seat of the car, complaining quietly. And _shit_ , Gustave had kept Clarence as his chauffeur. The old driver had worked for Dmitri’s mother, and being seen like _this_ by someone who had once known him during better days was surely the ultimate form of embarrassment.

And who the fuck _were_ these strange men, anyway?

It wasn’t at all a comfortable position to be in: with every small bump in the road, Dmitri’s head jolted up and down (which, thanks to his hangover, was _unbearable_ ) and he had to keep his long legs slightly bent in order to fit.

As they passed over a particularly rough bit of road, Gustave held Dmitri’s sore head in his hands, cushioning it from the sudden movement.

If anyone had told Dmitri an hour ago: “ _Hey, you’re gonna be lying in Gustave H.’s lap, and he’s gonna be cradling your head in his hands”,_ he would have said they were full of shit. And yet, here he was. As Dmitri looked up at him, Gustave’s blue eyes looked so horridly kind – just what the hell was this man’s problem?

Dmitri scowled.

‘D’you want to take your fucking hands off me?’ he asked, though it really wasn’t a question.

‘I’m just trying to make you comfortable’ said Gustave.

Absolutely nothing about the man made Dmitri comfortable.

‘Fuck off’ he said, lacking the energy to think up wittier response.

‘Perhaps this will make you feel better,’ said Gustave, and Dmitri cringed in anticipation of what “this” could be.

‘ _I think awhile of Love, and while I think,_ ’ Gustave recited, airily.

‘Oh, fuck _off_ ’ Dmitri repeated.

‘ _Love is to me a world,_ ’ Gustave continued, ignoring him, ‘ _Sole meat and sweetest drink,_ ’

‘I hate you so fucking much’

‘ _And close connecting link-_ ’

‘I’ll end you –‘

‘- _‘Tween heaven and earth. I only know it is, not how or why…_ ’

 _Wonderful_ , thought Dmitri: his introspective trip to Lutz had ended with him being hauled off to hospital, in a car with his family’s judgemental old chauffeur, three strange, dangerous looking men, and his late mother’s whore, who was currently subjecting him to romantic poetry knowing full well he was too weak to fight back.

As Gustave began yet another stanza, Dmitri could only hope that his injuries were severe enough that he would immediately drop dead before had to endure any more of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The country which invades Zubrowka is never really made explicit in the film, so I'm going to leave it ambiguous here as well (I suppose that part's up to you readers to decide).  
> \- The prisoners' friendship with Gustave is one of the funniest parts of the film to me, so obviously they had to be included here (R.I.P. Gunther, who was slain in the catacombs).  
> \- I don't know why, but Dmitri scathingly calling Gustave bisexual? It cracks me up every time.  
> \- Gustave torments Dmitri with the poem 'Friendship' by Henry David Thoreau.


	4. Follow Thy Fair Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gustave and Dmitri drink coffee and discuss murder.

When his injury had been at its worst, Gustave had been treated very kindly by one Dr. Piotr Vasiliev, and he now considered the man a dear friend. As he and Clarence unceremoniously hauled an irate Dmitri into Lutz's prestigious St. Euphrosyne’s Hospital, he was beyond grateful that Piotr refrained from asking too many difficult questions.

As it transpired, Count Desgoffe-und-Taxis was nowhere near as close to death as his various groans and lamentations would suggest to the casual observer. It seemed he’d managed to crack a couple of ribs on his left side – painful, Piotr explained, but nothing life-threatening, so long as he allowed himself adequate time to heal.

‘…And _don’t_ over-exert yourself,’ he added, the hint of judgement in his voice making Gustave smile, ‘and, for what it’s worth -whilst it’s not essential to the healing process - I’d cut down on the drink as well.’

‘Noted’ said Dmitri, scowling, ‘Now could you _please_ remove this fucker?’ – an accusing finger, pointed towards Gustave – ‘He’s putting me under stress, and it’s not good for my health.’

‘Worse for your health than lying bedraggled in the gutter?’ Gustave asked, ‘Am I really such bad company, Dmitri?’

‘Fuck off’ Dmitri spat, then turned to Piotr, ‘I want the police called; this man is harassing me.’

‘ _Harassing_ you?’ said Gustave, before Dr. Vasiliev had time to respond, ‘My _dear_ boy’ – he imbued the phrase with as much venom as he could muster – ‘as I recall, _I_ never had _you_ falsely accused of murder.’

Gustave couldn’t bring himself to be _glad_ that Dmitri had been injured, as he’d never been the type to delight in others’ suffering. However, he _did_ consider himself fortunate that the man was currently in no state to beat the living shit out of him, because the expression on Dmitri’s face conveyed nothing but the utmost desire to kill Gustave with his bare hands.

‘ _OH!_ ’ he yelled, so loudly that it surely must have caused him pain, ‘Oh, we’re fucking going there, are we? _Are_ we? _I_ never stole _your_ fucking home and all of your goddamned money, you candy-ass son of a bitch!’

 ‘I never made an attempt on your life!’ Gustave retorted, ‘I’m sorry, Piotr,’ he quickly added, noticing the look of concern on Dr. Vasiliev’s face, ‘This has nothing to do with you, and quite frankly he’s behaving disgracefully.’

That particular accusation seemed to have struck a nerve with Dmitri, who rose from his seat for a moment before immediately sitting back down again, wincing.

‘ _I NEVER FUCKED YOUR MOTHER!’_ in his rage, the pitch of Dmitri’s voice raised by an octave, and Gustave could have sworn he saw the man’s eyes redden.

‘Gentlemen!’ Piotr objected, placing a hand on Dmitri’s shoulder to calm him (Gustave admired his bravery; with each passing second, the Count looked more and more like a rabid animal) ‘I _do_ have other patients waiting. Perhaps you could take this discussion outside?’

Gustave didn’t much like the prospect of speaking to his enemy without the help of a mediator, but didn’t want to cause Piotr any more hassle. In fact, he wasn’t sure _what_ he should do – should they both go their separate ways again? Would Dmitri even allow this? It wasn’t as though he would have much of a choice; Dmitri would hardly be able to pin him down and…and what? Kill him? Demand an apology?

Still, when he could be bothered to give Dmitri any thought at all, Gustave had to admit that he was an intriguing case. Any psychiatrist in the world would have had a field day with the man; his issues were innumerable, and ran far deeper than a couple of cracked ribs.

He’d been rather sweet as a young man, for the most part. Gustave wasn’t sure where things had gone so disastrously wrong.

A potentially ill-advised plan was forming in the back of his mind – an idea which only grew more appealing the more he tried to ignore it. He _had_ to know the truth, damn it!

He was probably an idiot for even considering this, but he’d had worse ideas.

**********

‘Just so you know, I hate you and everything you stand for’ Dmitri expressed his contempt matter-of-factly as he reclined in his armchair. He held a small cup of black coffee between his thumb and two of his fingers (the remaining two pointed outwards in an overtly pretentious manner).

Having managed to coerce an indignant Dmitri with the promise of comfort and familiar luxury, Gustave now sat conversing with him the largest of Schloss Lutz’s many sitting rooms. Ludwig, Pinky, and Wolf stood by the heavy oaken door, and were keeping a close eye on proceedings.

Dmitri talked big for one so thoroughly outnumbered, Gustave thought. The fact that he _hadn’t_ been beaten within an inch of his life sooner was truly one of the great miracles of the modern age.

‘Charming’ said Gustave, stirring cream into his own coffee, ‘Then you despise courtesy, good service, and common decency, I assume?’

Dmitri scoffed.

‘Oh, that’s fucking _rich_ ,’ he said, ‘You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word “ _decency”_ if it fucked you right in the face.’

Gustave raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, morality’s all subjective, isn’t it?’ he said, ‘For what it’s worth, I’d much rather be a whore than a murderer. You _do_ know nobody really believes you’re innocent, don’t you?’

It was strange: Gustave had expected _that_ one to send Dmitri flying into a rage (which was hardly a difficult feat), but he hadn’t been prepared to see the man looking quite so conflicted. He did look angry, certainly, but also profoundly uncomfortable.

‘For what it’s worth,’ he echoed Gustave’s turn of phrase, mockingly, ‘I’ve been telling the truth. These last few months, I mean’ he added, ‘I was lying through my teeth before, sure, but I’ve been telling the truth since all… _this_ shit happened.’

He gestured vaguely at the air around him.

‘I see’ said Gustave, and sipped his coffee, ‘There’s just one tiny little problem with all of that, dear boy…’

A pause, for effect – ah, _there_ was angry Dmitri, Gustave knew he’d be making an appearance again soon.

‘How the fuck am I supposed to believe you?’

‘Because what more do I have to lose?’ the response came quicker than Gustave had expected, ‘I mean it. You’ve taken everything from me. What am I going to do, lie to a judge and go to fucking jail? You think a guy like me could survive in there?’

‘Probably not,’ Gustave admitted, ‘and _I_ would know, wouldn’t I?’

‘You would know, Gus’ Ludwig confirmed from across the room.

‘So, tell me,’ Gustave continued, ‘because having been imprisoned for her murder, I’d very much like to know: why _did_ you kill your mother?’

Dmitri’s eyes darted nervously towards the three men guarding the door.

‘Is this a fucking interrogation?’ he hissed, ‘Is that it? You’ve got me all weak and vulnerable and now you’re trying to play detective?’

Slowly, Gustave reached for the cafetière which sat on the table between them, refilled his cup, and then set it back down. As he stirred his cup, he stared deeply into Dmitri’s eyes.

‘We’re drinking coffee together,’ he said, ‘and it _is_ nice to have a little chit-chat when one does that, isn’t it? You can pick the next topic, if you wish.’

He would regret that promise later, he was sure, but if he had to make himself uncomfortable to pry the truth out of Dmitri, then so be it.

‘Okay,’ said Dmitri, shooting one more glance at Ludwig and Co., ‘but if you want me on my knees begging for forgiveness, you’re going to be disappointed. And I never said I was a fucking story-teller either, so don’t expect any goddamn prose.’

‘The first thing I’m going to tell you: my mother always treated her men better than her own flesh and blood. _Always_. Ask anyone in my family, if you want – they’ll all tell you the same: real sweet with her lovers, and a real bitch at home.’

That was hard for Gustave to believe, but he couldn’t think of a way to refute it. Céline had always been good to him, but…shit, that was exactly what Dmitri was telling him, wasn’t it? Not being a member of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family himself, he supposed he was in no place to defend her.

‘I don’t expect you to believe me,’ he continued, ‘but you didn’t have to grow up with her. But she did do _one_ good thing for me, I’ll give her that: when I was seventeen, she hired a bodyguard for me. He and I…we became friends, right away. I think you’ve met the guy.’

‘Charming man,’ said Gustave, ‘Tried to push me off the edge of a cliff.’

Dmitri laughed, bitterly.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘That was him. He was a son of a bitch, sure, but he was also the most loyal man I’ve ever known. I mean, I’m _glad_ he was mine, because I sure as fuck wouldn’t want him as an enemy. My mother found him, and she paid his salary, but he was _mine_ , and I’ve never had a better friend.’

 _Was_ he talking about Jopling? Gustave found it hard to imagine the ‘Private Investigator’ as anything more than a cold-blooded psychopath. He had only had brief encounters with the man, but he hadn’t exactly seemed amicable.

‘Now, eventually,’ said Dmitri, ‘you’ll have to talk with my sisters, because they’ll back me up here. All four of us grew up miserable, and yeah, I’ll admit, we joked about killing that old bitch all the time. We didn’t _really_ want her dead...okay, so we kind of did’ he confessed, under Gustave’s scrutinising gaze, ‘We all kind of wanted her gone, you know? We’d joke about which one of us would be the first to do it, but we didn’t expect to actually…you know…’

‘Go through with it?’ Gustave finished for him.

‘Yeah’ said Dmitri, ‘And, technically, none of us did. Not really. I…’ he paused, and seemed to be studying the wallpaper across the room, ‘Well, it was…There was a row. Before she left for Nebelsbad to see _you_ , because treating us like shit just made _her_ so fucking stressed out. She never kissed us, you know that? Or held us, even when we were real small.’

‘I’d heard that,’ said Gustave, ‘I must admit, I didn’t often hear her speak fondly of you.’

‘Yeah.’ Dmitri set his empty coffee cup down on the table. ‘I got angry. So, I told Jopling about it – he wasn’t a great talker, but he was always a good listener. He…he wanted to see me happy. We were friends. You’d want the same for your friends, wouldn’t you?’

 _No_ , Gustave thought; he loved Zero very much, but he still wouldn’t go so far as to commit murder just for the sake of making him feel better. Then again, Jopling _had_ been a hitman, and he supposed that a skewed moral compass was to be expected amongst those who chose such a profession.

‘So,’ said Gustave, ‘you didn’t pull the trigger, but you _did_ aim the gun, so to speak.’

‘I told him I wished she would hurry up and die,’ Dmitri confessed, ‘but I didn’t know he would take it so seriously. I mean, for fuck’s sake, he must’ve heard me say that hundreds of times!’

‘It might just be me,’ said Gustave, ‘but I’m not sure I’d tell a known assassin that I wished someone dead unless I _really_ meant it.’

Dmitri rolled his eyes.

‘Just fucking listen,’ he said, ‘this whole thing’s been as much of a cluster-fuck for me as it has been for you. You’ve never had to cover up a murder, have you? Because it’s fucking hard, I’m telling you – my mother had a _lot_ of friends, and that meant a lot of loose ends to tie up-‘

‘People to kill’ Gustave interrupted him, ‘Deputy Kovacs, Serge, and his sister. They got in the way, did they?’

‘If you’d been where I was, you’d understand.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Gustave, ‘But, I wasn’t ‘where you were’, was I? Whilst you were safe and sound, plotting and scheming and probably feeling more than a little smug, _I_ was rotting away in prison – and whilst I’m glad to have met these fine gentlemen‘ - he gave a nod to the three men standing guard by the door – ‘I really must say it was one of the worse experiences of my life.’

It may not have been _the_ worst thing that had ever happened to him, but if he were to rank his life’s misadventures in terms of misery caused, being imprisoned would have made it into the top five. The lack of freedom was one thing (and, of course, it was a given), but it was the lack of comfort which had caused him the most distress.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Dmitri exclaimed, ‘They’re fucking prisoners? You’re letting convicts into _my_ family’s home?’

‘You lived with an assassin for over twenty years, darling,’ said Gustave, dryly, ‘No one could ever accuse you of keeping innocent company.’

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed.

‘How’d you win them over?’ he asked, ‘ _They_ actually look like real men, so I don’t know what you’d have in common. What were you, their prison bitch, or something?’

Gustave knew he _should_ be deeply offended by this accusation, but all he could do was laugh. He’d had to develop a thick skin over the years, and by this point insults regarding his masculinity were like water off a duck’s back.

‘Nothing like that, Dmitri!’ he said, ‘No, I simply helped to free these men from their imprisonment – well, _our_ imprisonment-’ he corrected, ‘and I was nice to them. You should try that, one day; it often yields marvellous results.’

He _had_ , admittedly, beaten the shit out of Pinky, but he chose to omit this point as he deemed it counter-intuitive to his argument. It wasn’t as though he normally went around getting into fistfights, and the very last thing Dmitri needed was even the slightest affirmation that violence was a positive way to handle things.

‘It wasn’t entirely personal’ said Dmitri.

‘Calling me a “ _prison bitch_ ”?’

‘Framing you for the murder’ Dmitri clarified, angrily, ‘We needed _someone_ to frame, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Of course you did.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, it _was_ going to be Serge, but the fucker knew too much.’

‘Mm-hmm.’ Gustave nodded, ‘I suppose I was just the most convenient suspect, wasn’t I?’

Dmitri’s expression was difficult to read: it wasn’t _quite_ one of guilt, but his near-omnipresent frown lifted for the briefest moment. His long, narrow face looked rather melancholy without it.

‘You were her lover,’ he said, ‘Lovers kill one another all the time.’

Dmitri didn’t just look unhappy; as he held his head in between his hands, the man looked absolutely wretched, and although Gustave knew his torment was mostly self-inflicted, it still wasn’t a pleasant sight.

Damn it, his concierge instincts were kicking in, weren’t they? He’d spent so much of his life tending to people’s needs that it was hard for him to see a guest in such a state of discomfort, even if said guest _had_ tried to kill him. _Goddamn_ his deeply-ingrained sense of hospitality!

(Still, Dmitri looked as though he could do with a nice, long rest in a warm bed).

‘Why not tell the truth about Jopling from the beginning, then?’ asked Gustave – this would have made things a lot simpler, after all.

(And a bath, Gustave thought – that might ease Dmitri’s pain a little).

‘He was my friend’ Dmitri replied, offering no further explanation.

If this were true, then Gustave had to admire Dmitri’s integrity…if one could call it that. His actions had by no means been justifiable, but loyalty to a friend was at least a somewhat honourable motive. Of course, it was incredibly likely that this wasn’t the whole truth, and that Dmitri was just looking for sympathy – a fact which he would almost certainly deny but which was unavoidably true. Another undeniable fact: seeing Dmitri in his current state, Gustave was sorely tempted to _give_ him a modicum of sympathy.

So, as he sat in his dead lover’s sitting room with her ill-natured son, Gustave had his second terrible idea (two in one day, he thought – he still surprised himself, sometimes).

‘You’re not well, are you, Dmitri?’ he said, knowing it to be true, ‘I’d imagine you’re in quite a lot of pain, and I doubt you’re up to doing much.’

‘Yeah, no shit!’ Dmitri groaned, ‘What, are you going to offer to kiss me better?’

‘It’s a _very_ big house,’ said Gustave, continuing regardless, ‘I barely use a quarter of it, if that. And it _was_ your home for a long time, before it was mine. You’re welcome to say no, of course, but if you’d like to stay here until you’re all healed up, I’ll allow it.’

He would, he’d decided, feel a strange sort of guilt if he threw an injured man out of his old family home. He’d _liked_ Céline an awful lot and, in a way, Dmitri was all that remained of her, even if they hadn’t seen eye-to-eye.

‘You’ll _allow_ me?’ said Dmitri, looking hollow behind the eyes, ‘You’ll fucking allow me to live in my own house?’

‘Mm-hmm. _If_ you agree not to cause any trouble, of course. Ludwig will hold on to that gun of yours until you leave; you’ll have no need for it here.’

‘ _Oh!_ ’ Dmitri protested, ‘For fuck’s sake! Are you helping me out or holding me captive?’

‘Definitely the former,’ said Gustave, ‘you’re free to have it back if you decide you want to leave. I just don’t want any guns being waved about in here; I’m willing to help you, dear boy, but I’m not stupid.’

‘You don’t trust me, then’ Dmitri huffed.

Oh. _That_ was rich. That was just too good.

‘ _Dmitri_ ,’ said Gustave, ‘when – and I’m being serious here – _when_ have you ever proven yourself to be worthy of even the _slightest_ little bit of trust? Let me state now, before things get out of hand, that you have absolutely nothing to gain from killing me, all personal vendettas aside. If I die, this place goes to someone else, and _he_ won’t be willing to let you stay here, I can tell you that with confidence.’

‘Furthermore,’ he continued, ‘if I’m murdered, who’s the first person they’re going to suspect, hmm? I’d wager nobody else on Earth has such a strong motive for organising my demise. You’d be locked up in a cell before my body was cold - I’d rather like to see you get out of that one…although, I _would_ be dead. Now, are you going to argue any more, or shall we get dear Clotilde to draw you a nice bath? Because, if I may be blunt, you desperately need one.’

With his little speech, Gustave had achieved the impossible: he had shut Dmitri up. Dmitri’s mouth opened in preparation for a scathing retort, but closed again before he could think of one. With one hand supporting his ribs, he rose painfully to his feet and tried to regain some dignity.

‘My bedroom’s on the fourth floor,’ said Gustave – Dmitri looked horrified, so he quickly added ‘thought you’d want to know, since you’ll be picking one. I’m not sure which one was your old room, but you can sleep anywhere you want; I haven’t moved much around, so you’ll probably feel right at home.’

‘I’m in the east wing’ Dmitri snapped, ‘I’d tell you which room, but I don’t want you coming in to fuck me in my sleep.’

Gustave raised his eyebrows - god, this man had a talent for vulgarity, didn’t he? He followed Dmitri through the door and gave a conspiratorial nod towards Ludwig, promising he would explain all of this later.

‘There’s no danger of that happening, Dmitri,’ he said, ‘I can assure you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Dmitri asked, strolling down the corridor as fast as he could manage without hurting himself, ‘I’m not your type, am I?’

‘Shockingly,’ said Gustave, catching up to him with ease, ‘Scheming, manipulative bastards with absolutely no interest in me _aren’t_ my type, no. Although, I will say, that first part is entirely your choice.’

Dmitri turned on his heel, and grimaced in pain.

‘ _What?’_ he hissed, ‘What the fuck are you talking about, old man?’

‘It’s entirely your choice to be as much of a bastard as you are, Dmitri’ said Gustave, ‘You could be a better person if you chose to be; from my experience, almost everyone can. Of course, whether you want to spend the rest of your life being bitter and spiteful is entirely up to you, but it _does_ seem like an awful waste of energy.’

Predictably, Dmitri growled and rolled his eyes; Gustave hadn’t thought he’d enjoy being confronted with the truth – no-one ever did.

‘It’s just the way I am’ he said, ‘You’re a fruit, _I’m_ a son of a bitch, so let’s just leave it at that.’

‘Still,’ said Gustave, ‘You don’t have to be. _Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow…_ ’

‘Oh, fuck’ Dmitri started walking faster.

‘ _Though thou be black as night –‘_

‘Fucking _stop_ that!’

‘ _And she made all of light-‘_

‘Now who’s being the asshole?’

‘ _Yet follow thy fair sun-‘_

‘Enough!’

‘ _-unhappy shadow_. I quite like that one.’

‘You’re going to have to stop with that poetry bullshit when I’m around’ said Dmitri.

‘My dear boy,’ said Gustave – he loved the anger that term of endearment provoked – ‘I can’t possibly make that promise.’

As Dmitri stormed off, Gustave wondered how long cracked ribs generally took to heal – it was something like a couple of months, wasn’t it? Lars, one of the old lobby boys, had suffered a similar injury after falling from a low balcony, and he’d been back to work fairly quickly.

This, he thought, was going to be an interesting couple of months.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Understandably, Gustave and Dmitri are NOT the best of friends. Gustave might be generous and hospitable by nature, but that's not going to stop him from absolutely dragging Tall Goth Man within an inch of his life. He's letting him off lightly.  
> \- My headcanon is that Dmitri and Jopling were very close - Dmitri didn't have the most affectionate family, as we know, and his assassin was possibly one of his only friends. Birds of a feather, I suppose...  
> \- This chapter's poem: Follow Thy Fair Sun - Thomas Campion.


	5. The Moods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of yet another old friend - additionally: midnight snacking and passive-aggressive coffee brewing.

‘ _Time drops in decay,_

_Like a candle burnt out,_

_And the mountains and the woods_

_Have their day, have their day;_

_What one out in the rout_

_Of the fire-born moods_

_Has fallen away?’_

Eagerly, the staff helped themselves to food, and Zero slinked away. Although he sometimes remained with his colleagues for dinner, he much preferred to dine with Agatha in their quarters. He was, he reflected, becoming more and more like his predecessor with each passing day. Any day now, he’d be calling people “darling” and drenching himself in cologne.

Well, maybe he’d give it a couple more decades.

He was surprised when he stepped out into the corridor and found Agatha already waiting there. Normally, she waited upstairs for him to join her, but the insistent look in her eyes told him that something was going on.

‘Hi,’ he said, leaning in for a kiss, ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Inspector Henckels is here,’ she said, ‘He says he wants to speak with you.’

Zero wasn’t quite sure how to feel; this could either be good or incredibly bad news. He just hoped there hadn’t been any more murders – there’d been far too many of those over the last year, and under the new regime he feared things weren’t going to get any better.

Although, of course, it wasn’t “murder” when the authorities did it. People simply disappeared and were never heard from again. You weren’t _meant_ to talk about it, but everyone did – it was hard to ignore when it was happening all around you. Old Mr. DuPont, from the Nebelsbad library, had “gone missing” a week ago. He was always such a helpful man; Zero hoped he’d simply been imprisoned, but knew better than to be too optimistic.

‘Mr Moustafa!’ Henckels strode across the lobby to greet him, and Zero was surprised to see the man in plainclothes instead of his usual grey. ‘Sorry to disturb you in the middle of dinner, but I thought you’d want these as soon as possible.’

He quickly glanced over his shoulder, then retrieved a small folder from inside his coat and handed it to Zero.

‘Are these...?’

‘Your documents, yes,’ Henckels answered. ‘All legitimate, but I had to jump through a lot of hoops to get you approved. I had to make sure they got to you safely - consider it repayment for saving the life of a mutual friend.’

The ‘faint glimmers of civilisation’ that Gustave had once spoken of were few and far between; in Zero’s eyes, Henckels was one of them.

‘Thank you,’ said Zero. ‘I mean, you saved him too –‘

‘Without you, he would have been dead before I had the chance’ Henckels insisted. ‘Now, hopefully, there won’t be any more trouble, but I’d still be careful,’ - again, the look over his shoulder. ‘Things have been getting worse, though I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.’

If Henckels was growing worried, Zero thought, the situation must be truly dire. He _was_ a law enforcer; surely he, of all people, couldn’t be accused of doing wrong. He looked tired from more than just a lack of sleep.

‘Can I get you anything, Inspector?’ Zero asked, ‘Would you like a drink before you leave?’

For a moment, Henckels hesitated, but then gave in.

‘Do you have any Scotch?’ he asked, hopefully.

‘Of course,’ said Zero, leading him towards the bar, which was kept well-stocked with all the common liquors, as well as many more unusual ones (one could never anticipate whatever strange tastes an arriving guest may have, after all).

The bartender (Julien: an ancient man whose knowledge of cocktails was encyclopaedic) was eating dinner along with the rest of the staff, so Zero poured Henckels a drink himself.

‘Thanks’ he said, seating himself on a barstool and looking dispirited.

Zero wanted to ask him what was wrong but, as a concierge, it wasn’t his job to pry into people’s personal lives. But then, Henckels _wasn’t_ really just a client, was he? There was a rather uncomfortable silence as both men tried to decide if they knew the other well enough to share their true feelings.

‘So, how’s Mrs. Moustafa?’ Henckels asked. While Zero _knew_ Agatha was his wife now, it was still strange to hear her referred to as such. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

‘She’s amazing,’ said Zero, and Henckels managed a smile. ‘It’s hard work sometimes, all of this, but not with her here. Do you…’ he paused, ‘Do you have any family, sir?’

A personal question, yes, but something to bond over nevertheless.

‘I’ve been too busy to settle down,’ Henckels replied, ‘but I won’t be for much longer. I’m resigning soon, see.’

Zero was surprised; Henckels was still fairly young, and he seemed in good health. He’d always been under the impression that the Inspector took pride in his job, and hoped that coming to Gustave's defence hadn’t landed him in too much trouble.

‘You’re probably wondering why,’ said Henckels, finishing his drink. ‘Well, like I said, things are getting worse; I’ve got no say in anything anymore. Twenty years ago, I promised to protect people, not persecute them. I’ll find another job, somehow – one where the Party doesn’t have such a tight grip on me.’

It was an awful shame, thought Zero, that former-Zubrowka’s police force would lose such a virtuous man – but what was the alternative? He’d grown fond of Henckels, and didn’t want him to meet the same fate as Gustave; _he_ might not be so lucky. These days, having principles was an easy way to get oneself killed.

‘Well…’ said Zero, ‘If you need somewhere to stay, you’ll always be welcome here. It’s repayment.’

For the second time that evening, Henckels smiled.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘You’re a good man, you know. He’s taught you well.’

During times like these, hope could only been maintained with the help of others. Rebellion wasn’t always gunfire and mayhem – sometimes it was as simple as lending a helping hand.

 

**********

To Dmitri’s credit, the following week was unaccountably peaceful. As far as Gustave could gather, the man had holed up in his quarters, only emerging to retrieve food and water from the kitchens before slinking away again. He supposed, having grown up in the grand house, Dmitri probably knew better than most how to get around the place without being spotted. It _was_ an immense building; even after having spent a few months at Schloss Lutz, Gustave still found himself getting lost on occasion.

Truthfully, the Count was likely a little intimidated by Gustave’s new entourage of bodyguards. He was all bark and no bite, that Dmitri: he threw around fighting words with every breath, but when it finally came to blows he was, essentially, a coward. No _wonder_ he’d been such good friends with Jopling, Gustave thought – that terrifying specimen of a man had probably been the only thing standing between him and constant beatings.

Then again, he _did_ have that crooked nose – the fault of a simple accident, or a well-deserved punch to the face? Taking Dmitri’s personality into consideration, the latter seemed far more likely.

Zero had punched him in the face, once. Gustave smiled as he recalled the speed at which his friend had defended him – the boy had only known him for a short while, and had already been willing to fight a member of Zubrowka’s richest family just to keep him safe. What was more, Gustave had no doubt that he’d do it again, if given the chance. Care would have to be taken to keep the two men apart, at least for now - getting into fistfights wouldn’t help Zero’s reputation as a concierge, after all.

It was past midnight and, unable to sleep, Gustave ventured downstairs in search of a hot drink. Perhaps his tiredness had made him paranoid but, as he made his way to the kitchens, he was conscious of every little sound around him. He was _pretty_ sure Dmitri wouldn’t ambush and kill him, but hadn’t ruled out the possibility entirely.

Methodically, he filled one of the many kettles and placed it upon one of the many stovetops - the kitchens at Schloss Lutz really were obscenely huge. As he paced around, waiting for it to boil, he was startled by a rustling sound from the other room.

Oh shit, there he was! It was Dmitri, rifling through the bread bin.

Well, Gustave supposed they would have to break the silence eventually; he cleared his throat, and Dmitri spun around, alarmed.

‘What the fuck?’ he said, clutching half a baguette, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I live here’ Gustave answered. ‘Can’t a man make some tea in the privacy of his own home? Or would your fascist friends outlaw that?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘How’s your plan of cosying up to the new regime going, anyway? I doubt they’d want one of their party members starting fights in the street and passing out on the roadside – but then, they really are a savage bunch.’

‘I said fuck off!’ said Dmitri. He took a jar of jam from a nearby cupboard and, for a moment, Gustave thought he was going to fling it at him, until he started spreading it on the baguette. It was the angriest food preparation he had ever seen.

‘Have I struck a nerve?’ asked Gustave, ‘It’s remarkably difficult _not_ to; you’re a veritable minefield of nerves.’

Dmitri took a furious bite out of his bread, and shoved the jar back into its cupboard.

‘ _Apparently_ ,’ he growled, ‘I’m “bad for their public image”. Like they _don’t_ already fucking kill people! I mean, what the fuck? _“Zubrowka doesn’t like you anymore, Mr. Desgoffe-und-Taxis”_ – really? Because the last time I checked, Zubrowka doesn’t _love_ you either – we’d be natural allies, but no! I mean… _Jesus_ …fuck…’

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

‘ _Oh dear,_ ’ said Gustave, ‘Did someone get thrown out of the Zig-Zag Club? The biggest collection of bastards around, and even _they_ don’t want to be associated with you! I must say, dear boy, that’s almost impressive. I was wondering why they hadn’t swooped in to offer you their aid.’

Hypothetically, Gustave thought, if _he_ had been running an authoritarian regime, he wouldn’t want Dmitri in the inner circle either. He was in no position to offer financial help anymore, and it wasn’t as though he’d win anyone over with the sheer force of his personality.

He was also a _terrible_ shot.

‘It’s all your fault, of course,’ said Dmitri, ‘I hope you realise that.’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure,’ Gustave sauntered into the next room to remove the kettle from the stovetop, ‘I’m giving you shelter, aren’t I? I hope _you_ realise that’s more than most would do.’

‘Yeah, you’re _such_ a fucking saint,’ Dmitri spat, ‘If you fuck someone’s mother, you should at least let them live under your roof.’

‘Really?’ said Gustave, ‘Where in the Bible is that particular commandment? I don’t think I remember that one.’

Dmitri paused, clearly trying to process a response; Gustave could almost hear the gears turning in his brain.

‘Yeah, well the Bible also says not to fuck men,’ he retorted, looking pleased with himself, ‘but I’ve heard you do _that_ like it’s going out of fashion.’

As he poured the boiling water into his cup, Gustave wondered if it would be better to laugh off Dmitri’s comment or double down and _really_ make the man uncomfortable. The former would be easier, but the latter sounded much more fun.

‘I _wish_ , darling’ he said, ‘Sadly, it’s rather hard to find any willing men in these parts. I haven’t indulged in that particular pastime in quite a while.’

Sure enough, Dmitri grimaced and took a few steps back, busying himself by inspecting the contents of another cupboard.

‘You’re disgusting’ he said, ‘No-one wants to fucking know what you do in the bedroom.’

‘You’re the one who keeps bringing it up!’ said Gustave. ‘How are the ribs, by the way?’

‘Sore. Why’s your arm all fucked up? Got a little too adventurous with some old broad?’

Was his injury still so obvious? Gustave had been feeling quite a bit better, but his right shoulder was still considerably stiff (all part of the healing process, Dr. Vasiliev had assured him – totally normal).

‘Actually,’ he replied, ‘I was shot, at the end of last year. One of your trigger-happy former associates put a bullet in me. I almost lost my life, I _still_ get nervous around firearms, and my recovery’s been long and painful. Of course, I’d imagine you’re quite happy about all of that.’

Dmitri certainly didn’t _look_ happy – but then, he rarely did. In fact, he looked rather taken aback: his eyebrows rose, and his mouth hung open for a moment before he pulled himself together.

‘Guess you’re fucking good at getting yourself into trouble, huh?’ he muttered. Perhaps, Gustave thought, he was jealous that some anonymous soldier had succeeded where he had failed.

‘Look who’s talking’ Gustave retorted. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, the hour is late, and my eyelids are heavy. I need my beauty sleep more than ever these days - I may see you in the morning, but I may not.’

At least Dmitri seemed to have settled for assaulting him verbally rather than physically, thought Gustave. That wasn’t ideal, but it was something. It wasn’t as though he’d have to put up with his presence indefinitely; once this disastrous man had fully healed, Gustave would gladly be rid of him (though he was sure that, in the meantime, Dmitri would milk his injury for all it was worth).

Things would turn out all right; recently, all of his problems had had a way of resolving themselves, and he hoped this trend would continue.

As he retired once more to bed, Gustave only wished he had someone beside him. Goddamn, he really didn’t deal with solitude well these days, did he? _Needy old bastard_ , he told himself, _stop your pining and get some sleep_. A few of his lovers lived in and around Lutz, and under normal circumstances he might have invited one of them over, but he was wary of doing so with Dmitri around. He was sure that none of his regular partners would appreciate the company of such a vulgar man, and Dmitri would probably derive a great amount of satisfaction from ruining his romantic efforts.

No, that would have to wait a while. The things he did in the name of hospitality…

 

**********

Dmitri had never been a morning person. Granted, he was also neither an afternoon nor an evening person, but he’d always been at his worst in the morning.

He wanted what he couldn’t have – that much had _also_ always been true. He’d just about been able to convince himself that he didn’t need his mother’s affection until she’d showed it to other people. ‘Boy with Apple’, in retrospect, was nothing special (it wasn’t even the most expensive painting in his family’s collection), but he’d wanted to hold on to it once he’d found out it was to be given away. He’d wanted to come back to Schloss Lutz when he’d been driven out, but now he was back in his family’s home he found that he felt more miserable than ever.

His bedroom was familiar, but in the eyes of the law it wasn’t really _his_ ; everything around him belonged to that son-of-a-bitch concierge who’d done nothing to deserve it. _He_ , his mother’s own flesh and blood, had been pushed aside in lieu of some pansy who’d fucked her well a couple of times? She could have at least had the decency to give him and his sisters _some_ financial compensation for decades of emotional neglect.

_Well_. They _would_ have been fine if it hadn’t been for that goddamn fucking second will. If Gustave Fucking H. hadn’t escaped from prison, or if they’d just managed to kill Serge before he’d ratted them out, or if… _fuck._ Goddamn. He’d planned on getting a few more hours of sleep, but that was out of the question now that his mind was swimming with “what ifs”.

He was also _very_ sore. Granted, sleeping in his own bed was much better than lying about on the streets of Lutz, but at least out there he hadn’t had to live in close proximity to… _that_ fucker. He tried to take some solace in the fact that Gustave had been suffering for at least a few months, but surprisingly found himself unable to do so. He _should_ have been happy that his old enemy had been shot, and yet… and _yet_ …

Well, it would have been different if he’d shot Gustave himself. Probably. That might have been somewhat satisfying – vengeance for all the trouble that bastard had caused. But no, some asshole just _had_ to go and nearly kill Gustave for him; the man was _his_ enemy, damn it! _He_ should have been the one to shoot him, and was certain he would’ve done a better job of it. Some ‘death squad’ they’d turned out to be!

Fuck. He missed Jopling. The man had been one of his only companions, and now he would never see him again. Deep down, he supposed he’d always known that his friend’s life would eventually end prematurely. It wasn’t as though the line of work he’d chosen was renowned for being safe; hitmen _did_ tend to have short lifespans.

Above all, he had trusted Jopling – both with his life and his deepest secrets. Who would he turn to now? Who would listen attentively as he raged over his troubles? Jopling had seen him at his worst, at his most vulnerable, and with his death Dmitri knew that very few people remained who knew him intimately.

(Exactly three people, to be precise; his sisters had often been subjected to his rants whether they were willing to listen or not.)

He was, all things considered, a lost cause.

His train of thought was very rudely derailed by someone knocking on his door.

‘Fuck!’ he yelled, startled, and then immediately wished he’d pretended to be asleep.

‘Dmitri?’ came a familiar and despised voice from behind the door, ‘Are you decent in there? I mean, not morally speaking, of course, but are you dressed?’

Oh, wouldn’t _he_ like to know?

‘Fuck off.’

‘May I come in?’

‘Fuck off!’

‘I’m coming in’ said Gustave, and the door creaked open.

At least, Dmitri thought, it was still cold enough for him to wear pyjamas to bed, because he was _not_ letting that queer see him naked, Jesus fucking Christ. Just barging into his room unannounced– who the fuck did that? He could have been doing anything!

Gustave crept cautiously into the room, with a coffee pot in one hand and a cup in the other.

‘Don’t mistake this for forgiveness,’ he said, setting them down on Dmitri’s bedside table. ‘You have a lot to atone for, but I’m not too fond of holding grudges. You like your coffee black, don’t you?’

(In actual fact, he didn’t particularly like black coffee; he liked to seem like the sort of person who liked black coffee.)

‘If you’re trying to win me over with kindness, it’s not going to fucking work,’ he grumbled, rolling over and turning his back to Gustave.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Gustave, accompanied by the sound of a mug being filled. ‘Just know that if you’re willing to lay our rivalry to rest, so am I. Life’s far too short to be bothered with such things.’

Trying to be the bigger man, was he? No, no, Dmitri wasn’t going to let him get away with that.

‘Why do you say that bullshit?’ he asked, not really expecting an answer.

‘Maybe because I nearly fucking died’ Gustave snapped – holy shit, he actually _could_ sound assertive when he wanted to. ‘That does tend to make one re-examine one’s priorities, and hating _you_ is no longer one of mine. If you had even an ounce of common sense, you’d realise that this whole debacle could have turned out much worse for you, and you might find it within yourself to be the least bit grateful for my help.’

Dmitri _had_ seen the former concierge get angry a fair few times, but it never failed to surprise him. He didn’t _look_ capable of it, that much was true.

‘Shit,’ said Dmitri, ‘you’re serious, aren’t you? You _do_ realise you’re not at your fucking hotel anymore, right?’

‘Right.’

‘You don’t _have_ to help people to get paid,’ he continued. ‘You must be nice and comfortable with all _my_ money.’

‘I’ve helped people my entire life, and I enjoy it… you bastard,’ said Gustave. ‘Now, will you be getting out of bed at all today, or should I send someone up to bring you food?’

Oh, he was being annoyingly helpful – he had to be doing this on purpose. This was just… weaponised kindness, and Dmitri didn’t like it one bit, it was dreadful.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, ‘why don’t you just suck my dick whilst you’re at it? _Wait_ , no,’ he quickly added, ‘you’d probably enjoy that.’

‘I can assure you, darling, so would you.’

Oh, the fucking _audacity!_ How _dare_ he?

‘I mean,’ said Dmitri, trying his best to make up a witty riposte as he went along, ‘A goddamn whore like you’s got to be a fucking pro at it.’

Sadly, Gustave looked more amused than offended by his remark. A man as thoroughly irritating as him could at least have the decency to be easily upset – instead, he was nowhere near as sensitive as his overall demeanour would suggest. He looked like a fruit, he walked and talked like a fruit, yet his constitution was shockingly resilient.

‘Guilty as charged,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Though I suppose that’s better than sucking the metaphorical cock of the Zig-Zag Party – they don’t even return the favour, do they?’

With his mind still stuck in an early-morning haze, Dmitri wasn’t quite sure if Gustave was insulting him, or the Party, or both. Still, he very much resented the implication that he would suck _anyone_ off, _even_ metaphorically speaking.

‘ _What?_ ’ he tried to leap out of bed and make Gustave pay for his disrespect, but his body immediately reminded him that this was a bad idea. God damn it, whenever he was riled up he forgot that he wasn’t meant to be exerting himself; at any given time, his need to get absolutely furious overrode his basic sense of self-preservation.

‘Easy now,’ said Gustave, ‘don’t hurt yourself.’

‘Just fuck off,’ Dmitri scoffed. ‘Why disturb me so early in the morning anyway?’

‘It’s 11a.m., Dmitri,’ said Gustave, ‘but I’ll leave you in peace, if you wish. Don’t let your coffee get cold.’

Dmitri eyed the mug with suspicion. The old fruit wouldn’t try to poison him, would he? He hadn’t had Gustave down as a murderer – well, not for _real_ , anyway – but given the man’s changeable nature he honestly wasn’t sure.

On the other hand: if he died, he died.

(It was actually very good coffee).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 'Fuck the Police' does NOT apply to Henckels, he's cool. I kind of liked the idea that, since both of them played a role in saving Gustave's life in this story, he and Zero might become friends.  
> \- Dmitri's got pretty much no money or power anymore, so he's been unceremoniously kicked out of the Zubrowkan Evil Club and he is PISSED. OFF.   
> \- Passive-aggressive kindness is 100% a Gustave move.   
> \- This chapter's poem: The Moods - W.B. Yeats


	6. The Time I've Lost in Wooing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks and fireside chats.

_ Nebelsbad: 21st December, 1912 _

During the winter months, Nebelsbad was a dream covered in a thick, glimmering blanket of snow. Its beauty more than made up for the freezing climate, and the Grand Budapest Hotel was the jewel in its crown, beloved by all.

For the hotel’s employees, the Christmas season was anything but a time of rest. Preparations had to be made, after all, for the sudden influx of guests who journeyed from all corners of the world to spend the holidays there. The parties hosted there were nothing short of legendary, but they certainly took a lot of work to arrange.

In his small, sparsely-decorated quarters, Monsieur Gustave H. was preening himself in preparation for the evening’s events. Well, more specifically, he was beautifying himself for her.

He had met the formidable Céline Villeneuve Desgoffe-und-Taxis late in August, and had taken a liking to her at once. A dancer in her youth, she was slim and long-limbed and almost as tall as him, with high cheekbones and flowing blonde hair. She was ethereally beautiful, shockingly vivacious (especially for a woman more than twice his age), and she was very, _very_ rich.

Of course, that wasn’t his _only_ reason for liking her… but, admittedly, she took good care of him. After their last meeting, she’d bought him a very fine coat as payment for his services, after harshly criticising the state of his old one. He was altogether too handsome to dress himself in cheap clothes, she’d said.

(Had he been in a worse state of mind, he might have pointed out that her earrings looked a tad gaudy, but he hadn’t felt comfortable enough to make the comment at the time. Being nice to this woman could yield great rewards, after all, and he hadn’t wanted to risk upsetting her.)

He would soon be thirty and, in his humble opinion, he had reached the peak of his beauty. He wasn’t being _too_ conceited in thinking so, he thought, looking into the mirror; his lovers all said the same, after all, and he wouldn’t be so bold as to question their taste. Men and women from all over the world fell into his bed, so he had to be doing _something_ right.

He double-checked to make sure his hair was at an appropriate level of neatness (it was), and that his tailcoat was on straight (it was), and that his shoes had the right amount of shine to them (they did). For good measure, he gave himself one more spray of L’Air de Panache before heading downstairs.

Though he’d seen the place almost every day for the past thirteen years, it really _was_ beautiful, with its warm lighting and its glimmering chandeliers and its welcoming reds and pinks. It was truly a _Grand_ hotel, and he felt honoured to be part of such an institution. The lobby was, predictably, bustling. For some, hosting a party for this many guests might seem intimidating, but Gustave was in his element here, and he wasted no time in mixing with the new arrivals.

Still, he was quite relieved when one of his colleagues tapped him on the shoulder and informed him of Céline’s arrival (he’d been trapped in a conversation with the notoriously dull Dr. Rynsburger, and was glad of an excuse to get away). He made his way across the lobby, searching for her – which didn’t take long, as she was dressed from head to toe in scarlet.

She’d never been a fan of subtle looks. He had spotted her before she’d noticed him, so she was taken by surprise when he placed a hand on her shoulder and called her that same term of endearment he used for all of his friends.

‘Darling!’ he exclaimed, and in an instant her arms were around him – a movement which was accompanied by the heavy clinking of many large necklaces. Beneath her many layers of silk and furs, she was actually quite frail; it didn’t bother him, but he felt the need to be gentle with her.

‘Gustave, my love,’ she said, kissing his cheek (he hoped her lipstick hadn’t left a mark there), ‘So good to see you again. It’s been too long; I’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve missed _you_ ,’ he replied, ‘How was your journey? Was it easy?’

‘It all went quite smoothly, once we’d set off,’ she said, then added in a hushed tone: ‘although it was quite a chore convincing Dmitri to come along – he’s not the sociable type.’

Dmitri? Gustave had never heard her mention that name before. He must have been a relative, surely – perhaps even her son. He knew she _had_ children, though she had only ever mentioned them in passing. Still, as their relationship grew ever more intimate, he supposed that meeting her family was the next logical step.

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of this Dmitri before,’ he said, inquisitively. ‘One of your children, perhaps?’

‘Oh,’ she sighed, ‘yes, he’s my youngest. I wouldn’t have brought him along, you understand, but he really _does_ need to get out more.’

‘Well, I should like to meet him!’ said Gustave, ‘I’m sure all of your relatives are perfectly lovely, darling.’

Céline rolled her eyes.

‘Hardly’ she said. ‘But, if you insist, I’ll go and fetch him. Wait here a moment – I’ll be back shortly.’

Just like that, she disappeared into the crowd. Despite wanting very much to meet this Dmitri, Gustave found it hard to obey her order to ‘ _wait here a moment_ ’ – there were still so many people in the lobby to greet, and he had to briefly supress his instinct to attend to them all.

Fortunately, just as Céline had promised, she soon returned; following behind her was a tall young man in black, who could only have been her son.

Lord, what a pretty thing he was! Evidently, he took after his mother in that regard; he’d certainly inherited Céline’s long limbs, but had yet to develop her poise. Instead, he looked rather ungainly in his slightly oversized dinner jacket. With his slender legs and uncertain steps, he rather reminded Gustave of a giant, newly-born fawn.

The boy’s manner was undeniably endearing. As he traipsed along - his mother’s shadow - he seemed awfully skittish, as though a sudden loud noise might well startle him to death. It was in the eyes, Gustave realised - wide and darting - and in the eyebrows, sloping downwards at their ends. Oh, he so wanted to give the sweet young thing a pat on the shoulder, and to tell him everything would be all right – he didn’t at all look comfortable to be here.

‘Gustave, darling,’ said Céline, stepping to the side to bring her son into full view, ‘this is Dmitri. Say hello to the man, Dmitri.’ She encouraged him with a firm hand between the shoulders, and he stepped forward cautiously.

‘Hello’ he said, offering a long-fingered hand.

Gustave shook the boy’s hand enthusiastically, before quickly bending at the waist to kiss the back of his fingers. It seemed likely that this Dmitri would grow into a very powerful man, and it always paid to make a good first impression.

‘Charmed, Count Desgoffe-und-Taxis,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to meet you. I do hope you’re enjoying the festivities – be sure to let me know if there’s anything you need, won’t you?’

‘Oh, nonsense, darling,’ said Céline, ‘you needn’t worry about work this evening. Isn’t that what the rest of your staff are for?’

Gustave, however, was only half listening; he was too distracted by the light flush spreading across Dmitri’s pale face. Oh, he _was_ nervous, wasn’t he? Perhaps, Gustave thought, he wasn’t all that accustomed to receiving compliments. If true, that was a damn shame.

‘Dmitri, go and socialise’ Céline ordered, and he smiled uncomfortably before wandering off into the crowd. 

‘I do apologise for him,’ she said to Gustave, ‘I’ve told him time and time again how important it is to make good connections, but he’s dreadfully inept in situations like this. It’s a wonder if I can manage to get him out of the house at all.’

Oh, Céline. Gustave knew she wasn’t exactly the maternal type – indeed, she came to him at least in part to escape from her own family. In the short time he’d known her, she’d made enough disparaging comments towards them to make that much clear, but Gustave had to object to her criticism of Dmitri.

‘Oh, he seems like a darling boy,’ he insisted. ‘He’s young, my dear – plenty of time for him to learn his etiquette. I think he takes after you, you know.’

Céline rolled her eyes.

‘Lord,’ she said, ‘I should hope not. Spitting image of his father, that one. For the sake of his future wife, let’s hope he turns out to be a better husband.’

He _did_ feel some sympathy towards Céline; spending decades in a loveless marriage couldn’t have been easy for her, even if it _was_ the norm for women of her social class. Well, he supposed making a broad judgement was a little unfair – all he knew was that he’d met a _lot_ of very unsatisfied upper-class women whose husbands desperately needed to up their game. If a prolonged lack of affection drove them into his arms, he could hardly be blamed!

**********

 

After midnight, the party started to die down, but Gustave refused to retire to bed until he was certain it was over. His tiredness did nothing to diminish his perfectionism; this party was going to be excellent for its entire duration, and it _had_ to be, because he was in charge of it. He didn’t mind losing a little sleep if it meant ensuring everyone had a good time.

Eventually, though, there were no more guests to be seen to – all of them having either left or gone to their rooms – so he could finally relax. _Well_ , he would see to Céline first, and then he would relax; she’d travelled all the way to Nebelsbad to visit him, so it was only right.

Her son had made himself scarce during most of the celebrations, and Gustave hadn’t had the chance to speak with him again, but he decided he would make an effort to talk with Dmitri in the morning. He _was_ seducing his mother, after all – it was only good manners to be kind to him as well. This approach had worked well for him in the past: he’d only been twenty when he’d started his affair with Mrs. Henckels-Bergersdofer, and her little Albert had befriended him right away.

(The last he’d heard, Albert was no longer quite so little, and had his sights set on a job in the police force – Gustave wished him all the best.)

However, as it transpired, he wouldn’t have to wait until morning – he turned a corner, and there Dmitri was, in the corridor, leaning against the wall.

‘Good evening,’ Gustave said, and Dmitri’s eyes widened, ‘is everything all right? No trouble finding your room?’

Dmitri shook his head.

‘I was going to go and speak to my mother,’ he explained, ‘but now I’m not sure if I want to. Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s not a good listener.’

Céline was wilful, that much was true – Gustave knew that she tended to lead conversations more than she followed them.

‘She’s certainly a character’ Gustave agreed. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?’

Dmitri pursed his lips, and checked to make sure no-one else was in the corridor before replying.

‘Could I just… talk to you?’ he asked, ‘My room’s over there, and… I don’t know. _You_ look like a good listener.’

Gustave smiled.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘some have said so.’

They only had to walk a couple of metres to get to Dmitri’s suite. Once they were inside, and the door was closed, Dmitri suddenly seemed to lose a lot of the tension he’d been carrying around all day, as though he finally felt safe.

‘I just…’ he began, his voice faltering, ‘I feel under pressure, you know? I’ve got so many people telling me what I need to be, and I just want to…’ he looked down at the ground, dejected.

Gustave did what he’d wanted to do all evening, and placed a reassuring hand on Dmitri’s shoulder.

‘You want to be you’ he said, softly, ‘I understand. I _do_ , Dmitri. This won’t last forever, I promise; you’re a wonderful young man with a bright future ahead of you, and you’re going to make someone very happy one of these days.’

Gustave considered himself quite accustomed to dealing with people’s emotions, but even he was taken aback by what Dmitri did next. With no more warning than a slight tremble in his lower lip, he collapsed against Gustave, wrapping his long arms around his waist and burying his face into his shoulder.

There was nothing else he could do; he embraced Dmitri, and felt the boy shudder against him as he silently sobbed. Oh, the poor thing, he really needed this, didn’t he? Gustave stroked his back to comfort him, tracing over the ridges of his spine through his thin shirt. God, he was all skin and bone – still so young, still rangy from his teenage growth spurts. Dmitri’s cheek brushed against his neck, and Gustave could feel that it was wet with tears.

‘It’s all right,’ he cooed, ‘I’m here, Dmitri. You can talk to me. Do you want to talk, or do you just want comforting?’

‘C-comfort’ Dmitri stuttered through his tears, his voice barely audible.

‘All right, then,’ said Gustave, ‘comfort it is. Is there anything else you need? Anything I can get you? I do hate to see one of my guests so upset.’

Dmitri was silent for a moment, as he continued to cling to Gustave like a drowning man. Gustave’s mother had always told him to never be the first to break out of an embrace, so there he stayed. Finally, Dmitri loosened his grip, and slumped down onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands.

‘I…I’d like something to eat,’ he said, quietly, ‘Just something. Doesn’t matter what…I just felt nervous earlier, didn’t feel hungry…’

Well, if the boy’s appetite suffered when he was anxious, that explained his lean figure – if that were any indication of his mood, thought Gustave, then he must be prone to bouts of nerves. Still, he was glad there was at least _something_ he could do to help.

‘Of course,’ he said,’ I’ll fetch you something, you wait right here and make yourself comfortable.’

He flashed him a kind smile, then quickly went down to the kitchens, where many leftover vol-au-vents remained from the party (it was always better to overestimate than to risk not providing enough). Those would do nicely, he thought, and shovelled a generous amount into a bowl – Dmitri looked as though a little extra food would do him the world of good.

And indeed, the gesture was much appreciated: Dmitri took a few cautious bites of his food at first, clearly trying to be polite, before devouring the rest of it ravenously.

‘Feeling better?’ asked Gustave.

‘Much better,’ said Dmitri, ‘thanks. Could you come here for a moment?’

‘Of course.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed, next to Dmitri. How close could they get whilst still keeping things strictly platonic? Gustave often wondered this – he was a very affectionate man by nature, and saw nothing wrong with holding his friends, but knew that not everyone felt the same.

‘Am I too late?’ Dmitri asked, turning to look at Gustave. ‘I’m nineteen already, and I’ve never done anything worthwhile – I’ve never _had_ to.’

His eyes flickered down to Gustave’s lips, then darted sideways. It was a subtle gesture, but Gustave noticed it. It wouldn’t have meant anything if he’d only done it the one time, but as Gustave answered him, he realised that Dmitri was looking at him the same way that so many men and women had before. He was familiar with that look; he had experience with it.

‘Oh, darling,’ said Gustave (“ _darling”_ , he thought – too familiar?) ‘You’re still so young. You’re just barely a man – don’t be too hard on yourself.’

Oh, those big green eyes…he was gorgeous, undoubtedly so, but… _God_ , he was young. Had he been older, Gustave might have leant in for a kiss – which Dmitri so clearly wanted - but he quickly decided he wouldn’t feel comfortable seducing both Céline _and_ her son. Aside from the familial drama that would inevitably arise from such a liaison, Dmitri was presently _very_ vulnerable, and Gustave had no desire to take advantage of the boy’s delicate state.

‘You’ll be okay’ Gustave said, giving Dmitri’s hand a squeeze. ‘Everything will be fine. This won’t last forever, you know; one day soon, you’ll go out into the world and find yourself, and I’m sure the _you_ that you find…he’ll be wonderful.’

They shared one final embrace before Gustave left – a shorter one this time, as Dmitri seemed to have calmed down somewhat.

When he made love to Céline that night, he was left with the lingering feeling that there were an awful lot of things left unsaid between the two of them. Loath as he was to bring it up, he just couldn’t push his conversation with Dmitri to the back of his mind any longer. Céline _may_ not have been the most maternal woman, but she was still Dmitri’s mother – surely she knew that her son was so anguished.

‘He’s a lovely young man, that Dmitri’ he said, running his fingers through her long, blonde hair. It was strange to see her like this, with her hair down, and her face bare, stripped of her riotously expensive clothes and jewellery – so far from the vision of herself she presented to the rest of the world. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t totally sure if he _loved_ her, but being intimate with her was certainly no chore. She was always so eager to receive his affection; judging by Dmitri’s behaviour earlier that evening, Gustave could only conclude that this was an inherited trait.

‘Hm,’ she said. ‘You didn’t have to raise him, I suppose. Believe me, he’s been difficult. Always such a sensitive boy – I’ve tried to tell him that if he carries on like that, the whole world’s going to walk all over him, but I don’t think he listens. He hasn’t been the same since his father died, you see.’

Even making the briefest reference to her first husband was enough to turn Céline’s expression sour. To placate her, Gustave placed a kiss on her forehead.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I was also a very sensitive boy.’

‘Were you?’

‘Mm-Hmm. Very much so’ he replied, teasingly. ‘Loved poetry, even back then. And I’ve always loved looking at beautiful things...which is why I have _you_ here, darling.’

Flattery got you a long way with Mrs D-u-T; she inched closer to Gustave until she was practically straddling him, and kissed him deeply.

‘Good qualities in a lover,’ she said, ‘but not in one’s own son. Don’t worry about him, darling – he’s old enough to take care of himself.’

Gustave tried to remember what _he_ had been like at Dmitri’s age. In retrospect, he may have been a touch naïve, but he’d been able to handle himself considerably well. But, then again, he’d been left with little choice but to mature quickly, whereas this likely wasn’t the case for a boy like Dmitri.

‘Perhaps,’ Gustave said, ‘but go easy on the boy, Céline. He won’t be young forever.’

**********

_ Lutz: 30th April, 1933 _

There were several rooms in Schloss Lutz which one could call “sitting rooms”, but the one on the building’s east side was Gustave’s favourite. It was well-lit in comparison to many of the grand old house’s rooms, and not so large as to feel empty when he sat there alone.

It was no longer freezing during the daytime – in fact, there’d been several unseasonably warm days over the past few weeks – but the nights were still cold. He sat in front of a roaring fire with a volume of Romantic poetry and few measures of sweet, warming amaretto, and tried his hardest to just fucking relax for once.

Tomorrow was his birthday. He would be fifty, and it was only occurring to him now that he probably should have made plans to celebrate such a milestone. He’d never been one to make an event of his birthdays, and besides, these days, he didn’t need to be reminded of the inevitable passage of time. And yet… _fifty_. He’d been on this earth for half a century and, damn it, that _had_ to be worth celebrating, especially since he very nearly hadn’t made it this far.

He was getting _old_ , but he’d rather be old and alive than young and dead. At the very least, he’d have to give Zero a call in the morning. For now, he would simply try to enjoy the last night of his forties.

Once he had finished his drink, however, his peace was interrupted by the creaking of a door. To his surprise, Dmitri strode into the room and slumped into an armchair, his long limbs splaying out awkwardly as he did so.

‘Good evening, Dmitri’ said Gustave, his eyes returning on his book. ‘I was under the impression that you were trying to avoid me.’

He didn’t even need to _look_ at the man to know that he was frowning.

‘Fucking hell,’ he snapped, ‘I’m not allowed to sit down now, am I?’

‘There are an awful lot of rooms in this house,’ Gustave replied, briefly flicking his eyes upwards to make sure Dmitri wasn’t trying anything funny. ‘Many, many rooms without me in them. I just thought you might prefer to sit in one of those, since you despise me so much, and all that.’

Dmitri didn’t move, however, and Gustave was too tired to remove him from the room physically, so there they sat in front of the fire together, several metres apart. The room was warm and cosy, but the atmosphere was profoundly uncomfortable.

It was Dmitri who broke the silence.

‘Why are you helping me?’ he asked, sounding surprisingly non-confrontational. ‘I’ve done nothing for you. You’ve got nothing to gain from all of this. Are you really so fucking dumb that you think I deserve to be helped?’

It was a good question, Gustave thought – what _was_ he hoping to gain? He doubted Dmitri was the type to put a grudge aside even under the best of circumstances, and it wasn’t as though he had any power anymore – none that was worth mentioning, at least.

But still… he was _interesting_.

‘Well,’ said Gustave, ‘it’s hardly a question of _deserving_ to be helped. I’ve told you, I didn’t want to see you suffer because, regardless of how you’ve acted, I don’t like to see anyone in pain. Perhaps you _don’t_ deserve my help. Perhaps _I_ don’t deserve all of this…’ he gestured around the room, lazily, ‘but it’s not about that. It’s about compassion, Dmitri. I daresay you could do with a little more of it.’

It took a moment for those words to sink in. Gustave knew Dmitri must have had the best education money could buy, but he was _exceedingly_ bad at coming up with quick responses – or, at least, any comebacks more eloquent than “ _fuck off_ ”.

‘ _God_ ,’ he said, ‘you’re _such_ a fucking fruit.’

Predictable, thought Gustave. One out of ten for effort _and_ creativity.

‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ he said, ‘you asked for my opinion, and I gave it. Frankly, I’m not sure why you’re here if all you’re going to do is insult me. Do you have anything useful to say?’

There was a loud crack from the fireplace, which startled Gustave for a split second – it sounded a bit too much like a gunshot for his liking.

‘She always loved you more than she loved me’ said Dmitri. ‘You know that already, I know. You realise how fucking jealous I was, right? She never held _me_. Said she didn’t like to be touched – well, I _know_ that was bullshit because she threw herself at you every chance she got. Not just you, either, _all_ her fucking man-whores. And I hated all of them too, so don’t think you’re special. I was jealous of you because she loved you, and I was jealous of _her_ because _everyone_ loved her.’

Of course, Gustave knew it was all true. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’d sometimes felt conflicted about his relationship with a woman who so openly disliked her own family, but as far as he’d been concerned, that was none of his business.

‘I suppose that _will_ have quite the negative effect on a person’ he said, mulling over what Dmitri had just told him. ‘It’s not an excuse, of course, but it certainly explains a lot…’

He thought for a moment about whether he should say what he wanted to say, and then said it.

‘You were such a sweet young man.’

Both were equally shocked that the statement had been made. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Gustave knew he’d made a mistake – the look of despair on Dmitri’s face made that quite clear.

‘ _Don’t_ ’ he hissed, ‘Jesus Christ, who fucking made you my therapist? You think you’d like me better if I were still a weak little bitch?’

Gustave could have gone on a long tirade about Dmitri’s tendency to associate emotional repression with strength, but he knew that was likely to get them nowhere. The man wasn't exactly open-minded where alternative points of view were concerned.

‘You _weren’t_ weak,’ Gustave insisted, ‘you were nineteen, and you hadn’t been loved enough – it was perfectly understandable, and I _do_ understand, Dmitri. It turned you bitter and distant and downright sadistic, but you _do_ have a chance to start again.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘It’s _not_ bullshit, it’s true. You could reinvent yourself at any time; it’s never too late to make amends.’

Dmitri sighed, and readjusted himself in his chair. He no longer cringed in pain with every movement, Gustave noted; either he was on the mend, or he’d grown used to the discomfort.

‘Still waiting for my apology?’ Dmitri asked, ‘I’ve said it wasn’t personal, what more do you want? Maybe, _maybe_ , if you hadn’t fucked my mother, I wouldn’t hate you, okay? _There._ ’

Gustave had heard some pretty dreadful apologies over the course of his nearly-fifty years, but Dmitri’s attempt easily made the bottom three. It was such an inept display of emotion, in fact, that he could only respond with a poem.

‘ _The time I’ve lost in wooing,’_ he began, relishing Dmitri’s look of confusion.

‘ _In watching, and pursuing,’_

‘Are you fucking serious?’

_‘The light, that lies_

_In woman’s eyes,’_

 'Fuck off.’

‘ _Has been my heart’s undoing’_

‘In _men’s_ eyes, too, right?’ Dmitri quipped, ‘Because you’re a fucking bisexual and everyone in the goddamn world knows it?’

‘Surely not everyone,’ said Gustave. ‘There are a _lot_ of people in the world, Dmitri.’

‘Well…’ Dmitri leant back into his chair, clearly enjoying this opportunity to bicker, ‘ _maybe_ there’s some isolated tribe somewhere, cut off from the rest of the world, and _they_ haven’t heard how fucking queer you are. _Maybe_.’

Gustave laughed. He knew he probably shouldn’t be laughing at an attempt to insult him but, damn it,  he had to admit that that one was actually quite good – at least by Dmitri's usual standards.

‘What are you laughing at?’ said Dmitri, though the corner of his own lips was beginning to twitch upwards. ‘I mean it! Don’t fucking laugh when I’m trying to piss you off!’

‘Well, don’t fucking try to piss me off, then!’ said Gustave, and wondered why he couldn’t stop laughing. He _had_ been drinking on a relatively empty stomach - but still, he tended to get melancholy when he was drunk, not more cheerful.

‘Can’t do it!’ Dmitri protested, ‘Just like you can’t stop with the fucking poetry – I just can’t help it.’

Gustave realised that he’d been so desperate for company at Schloss Lutz that even _this_ – firing insults back and forth with an old enemy – had become quite an enjoyable way to spend an evening.

‘You really can’t, can you?’ he said with a sigh. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow,’ he added, ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you that, but I wanted to tell someone. I’ll be fifty.’

Dmitri huffed and rolled his eyes.

‘Old man. What do you want me to do, throw you a party?’

‘I’m not sure _what_ I want’ said Gustave, earnestly. ‘I always thought I wanted money, but now…’ he saw Dmitri starting to frown and remembered that that was a sensitive topic, ‘but now I don’t know. It _does_ get lonely here – hence why I’m talking to you, I suppose. And it’s so _quiet_ , and there’s all this empty space, and no-one around to share it with, and I’m not used to having all this free time, and I… good _God_ , Dmitri, I don’t know how you handled it!’

‘Who ever said I did?’ Dmitri answered. He immediately looked uncomfortable, and stood up, slowly. ‘I’ll leave you alone now, so you can think about how fucking old you are, okay?’

‘Okay’ said Gustave. ‘And, Dmitri?’

‘What?’

‘Thank you for making conversation.’

Dmitri stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and glared at him.

‘Yeah, sure, okay. Fuck off.’

‘Fuck off, Dmitri’ returned Gustave, with a smile. It wasn’t exactly _“Goodnight, my darling”_ , but for once there was no vitriol behind it, which was…something, at least.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! First of all, sorry for the delay - I've had a lot of university work this semester, but from now on I'll be posting more regularly.  
> \- Gustave DOES briefly mention that he 'adores' Henckels' mother in the film - he was probably/definitely hooking up with her and just decided to befriend her son as well.  
> \- Dmitri was a rich kid, and his family are weird and shady - he almost definitely grew up sheltered. (Because it's a flashback from Gustave's point of view, we MIGHT not be getting the full picture here - Dmitri probably already had some bastard-ish tendencies by this point. But still, lots of emotional neglect didn't exactly help.)  
> \- I have no problem believing that Gustave would fall for Madame D, because Tilda Swinton is hot (also, I recently watched The English Patient, and if 30-year-old Gustave looked anything like 30-ish Ralph Fiennes, he was also incredibly hot).  
> \- This chapter's poem: The Time I've Lost in Wooing - Thomas Moore (VERY appropriate for Gustave).


	7. Exotic Perfume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gustave celebrates his birthday; Dmitri suffers through the mortifying ordeal of being known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Quick warning: this chapter's considerably more M-Rated than previous ones have been.)

_Age is only a number, after all._

Gustave told himself this as he lay in bed on the morning of his fiftieth birthday. So far, he thought, fifty didn’t feel recognisably different from forty-nine, but he still felt _old_. It was strange, he knew, being so preoccupied with his age when he himself was happy to go to bed with women old enough to be his mother; if only he could see his own beauty as he saw theirs.

He _did_ try his best. All things considered, he didn’t look bad for fifty ( _ah, but always the caveat_ , he thought- _“not bad… for fifty”. Am I no longer good enough to simply be “not bad”?)_ He’d kept himself in fairly good shape over the years, despite his weakness for Mendl’s and other sweet things. Granted, he was a little softer in some places these days, but that didn’t concern him too much; he was in good health, and none of his paramours had ever complained. His face was no longer smooth and boyish, but at his age he supposed it _shouldn’t_ be.

Still, he was insecure, and he knew it. As the years went on, would all of the lovers he had met over the years abandon him in favour of younger, more handsome men? When one built such superficial relationships, he supposed that was always a risk. His hairline had been gradually creeping back over the past decade, and it bothered him. There were many, many other men more deserving of affection than he was, though they likely didn’t crave it half as much.

That was enough self-deprecation. He ought to be enjoying this day – it wasn’t as though he’d ever have another fiftieth birthday, after all.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

‘Rise and shine, old man,’ called Dmitri from the hallway, ‘there’s mail for you.’

It wasn’t exactly the kindest of birthday greetings, but Gustave was surprised nonetheless. When had Dmitri ever tried to be the least bit helpful before? _And_ it was only eight o’clock.

Normally, Gustave didn’t particularly like to be seen before he’d composed himself in the morning, but he got out of bed and opened the door regardless. It wasn’t the end of the world if Dmitri saw him in his pyjamas with slightly dishevelled hair, after all. _He_ seemed quite content to lounge about all day in his robe and slippers, so he was in no position to criticise Gustave’s current appearance.

‘Good morning, Dmitri,’ he said. ‘You’re up early – well, early for _you_ , at least.’

‘Never went to sleep.’

‘Ah. That explains it, then. You really ought to sort out your sleep schedule, you know; you might even be less irritable.’

‘Not likely,’ Dmitri retorted, and thrust a bundle of envelopes and a small parcel into Gustave’s hands. ‘There’s your mail. Happy fucking birthday.’

It wasn’t a _massive_ improvement, thought Gustave, but bringing him his post was undeniably a nice gesture. Why had he gone to the trouble of doing that?

‘You didn’t have to bring it up for me,’ he said, examining the letters. ‘What’s going on? Do I detect a sudden change of heart? Who _is_ this new, helpful houseguest, and whatever has he done with Mr. Desgoffe-und-Taxis?’

Oh, there was that frown. In Gustave’s opinion, it was a shame that Dmitri dedicated so much of his time to looking angry; he was, in fact, quite handsome when he let his face relax.

‘I know what you’re up to, Concierge,’ said Dmitri, ‘always trying to play it nice with me so I start feeling fucking sorry for you - well, _two_ can play at that game. I don’t know _why_ you’re trying to help me, but I’m sure as fuck not going to let you get the upper hand, understood?’

Gustave sighed. It was actually quite sad that Dmitri was so unable to view compassion as anything other than a tool for manipulation. Was that how it had been for him? Had those closest to him only treated him nicely when they wanted something in return?

‘Well… thank you anyway,’ he said, ‘I’m not “ _up to_ ” anything, for the record, but I do appreciate your help.’

‘Sure, okay,’ Dmitri replied, avoiding eye contact as though Gustave were some far nicer version of Medusa, whose gaze would _not_ turn him to stone, but _would_ soften his heart. ‘There’s another big parcel downstairs, but I’m not carrying _that_ up, so you’ll have to go down. _Ha_ ,’ he laughed, dryly, ‘bet a lot of people have told you _that_ before, huh?’

Despite himself, Gustave smiled.

‘Oh, I do that quite willingly, darling,’ he replied. ‘There’s no need for anyone to order me around – unless, of course, they enjoy that.’

If Dmitri didn’t want to hear about his sex life, thought Gustave, the man ought to stop basing all of his insults around it.

‘God,’ said Dmitri, ‘fuck it, forget I said anything. I’m going to bed now.’

‘Sleep well,’ said Gustave, ‘I’ll see you in the evening!’

**********

 

_Dear Gustave,_

_Happy Birthday, old friend – I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re still with us after last year’s nasty end. You’re a year older and a year better; now that I’ve got a lot more time on my hands, we should see one another more often (I’m sure my mother would be more than happy to see you again – she still asks about you sometimes)._

_Much love,_

_Albert_

_(P.S. I visited your hotel recently, and your new concierge is doing an outstanding job – you certainly did well with that one.)_

 

Gustave smiled as he placed the card on his windowsill. Meeting up with Albert _did_ sound like a good idea; he hadn’t seen his friend in months and – if what Zero had told him was true – he was probably in need of a little support after having left his job.

He had saved Zero and Agatha’s card for last, as he'd feared he would be so moved by it that he would be unable to read the others.

Sure enough, when he opened it up, every inch of the inside of the card was covered in words, uneven and cramped in places, as though it had been a struggle to express so many feelings on such a small piece of folded paper.

_Dear Gustave_

_Happy Birthday - I know you’re probably worrying that you’re getting old, but you shouldn’t. All the staff here aspire to be like you, you know – we all talk about you often, and I must say, you’re a hard act to follow. I don’t know where I’d be without you, and I’m always grateful that our paths crossed; you’re family to me now, don’t ever doubt that. When I manage to get some time off (which might not be for a while), we should finally visit the Maltese Riviera – I know you’ve always wanted to go there. I hope you enjoy your present; it’s hard to know what to get you now that you can buy anything for yourself, but I thought you’d like this._

_Warmest regards,_

_Your friend, Zero._

 

On the other side of the card, in much neater writing, was Agatha’s message:

 

_Dear Gustave,_

_Happy Birthday! I hope your cake reaches you in time (it’s a new recipe I’ve been working on – it’s quite fragrant and sweet; I think I’ll name it after you.) I hope you’re feeling well! Zero and I will come to visit you soon – now that he’s an official citizen of Zubrowka he shouldn’t run into any trouble. You’re a good man. I couldn’t have wished for a better father-in-law._

_Love, from_

_Agatha_

 

Family. Gustave’s eyes watered as he meditated upon the word. He had a _family_ now, not his by blood but his all the same. It was a shame Zero couldn’t come to visit him more often, really, but he was pleased that his friend took his position at the Grand Budapest so seriously. And a cake, from Agatha! How sweet of her; he could never resist her baking. That must have been the other parcel Dmitri had mentioned.

Carefully, he unwrapped the small parcel from Zero. He’d guessed it was some sort of book from the weight and shape of it, but when he saw what it was he was genuinely surprised. It was an old guest book from the Grand Budapest – god, where had he dug that up from? He didn’t remember keeping any of them, and this one looked old; perhaps they’d been stashed away in some long-forgotten corner of the hotel.

As he flicked through it, he was happy to note that no-one had had anything negative to say. There were names in there that he didn’t remember alongside names of regular customers who would later become friends, all of them praising the hotel and its staff. He understood why Zero had given it to him; it made him feel awfully proud of his years of work.

He really hadn’t done too badly, had he? It wasn’t so bad, being fifty.

He still didn’t want to spend the day alone, though. He knew Eliza Jeszenszky lived in Lutz and was usually free on Mondays, and since Dmitri seemed to be on his best behaviour he didn’t see any harm in inviting her over for some celebratory fun. It wasn’t _purely_ selfish, of course – since her husband’s death, she tended to get lonely, so really he’d be doing both of them a favour.

If she were coming over, he really _would_ have to get himself spruced up. But first, he went to investigate the cake Agatha had sent – he ate a slice of it as he flipped through his address book in search of his part-time lover’s telephone number. God, it was outstanding; that girl was a genius. If his name were to be commemorated by something so delicious, he’d be honoured.

It didn’t take long to make the arrangement with Eliza. Just as he’d predicted, she was eager to pay him a visit, and had told him she would leave as soon as she’d gathered a few things together. Knowing her organisational skills, he thought, that could take quite some time, but at least that would give him a while to get his affairs in order.

As he bathed, he was struck by a sudden, sobering thought: most of his family members hadn’t made it to the age of fifty. His father, and then his mother, and _then_ his uncle – all gone before their time, all of them younger than he was now. And, if not for a stroke of luck, he may well have joined them. But that wasn’t a pleasant thought, so he tried to push it from his mind; he didn’t need to be thinking about death on his birthday.

A friendly game of poker with Ludwig and Co. improved his mood somewhat. They laughed, and shared some of his cake, and reminisced over the not-so-good times. Gustave himself had never been particularly good at poker (he’d been told he had a very expressive face, which didn’t exactly give him an advantage), but Wolf was very skilled at the game (one couldn’t easily tell what _he_ was thinking at the best of times).

‘You can’t bluff’ Pinky told him. ‘You smile with your eyes too much.’

As he’d predicted, his companion didn’t arrive until late afternoon, which was fine.

Eliza Jeszenszky was a small, bird-like woman – Gustave had to stoop down to kiss her, and if not for his still-healing shoulder he knew he’d be able to scoop her up in his arms quite easily. He liked her. She had opinions on Classicism versus Romanticism, and always wore particularly nice earrings, and her lips were a very appealing shape.

She was also excellent in bed, but he had to at least pretend to have invited her over for other reasons, even though they both knew why she was there. It wasn’t polite to just go _straight_ to bed, after all – _some_ conversation was needed beforehand, and three in the afternoon was a little early to be making love, and –

‘Would you like to talk, love?’ asked Eliza, in that sultry voice of hers, ‘Or should we just have a good time?’

Ah, straight to the point, then. All right, he thought – fuck it, change of plan. It _was_ his birthday, after all. And three o’clock wasn’t _that_ early.

‘Could I get you something to drink first?’ he asked (his libido may have been strong, but his need to be a good host was always stronger).

Eliza raised an eyebrow.

‘We can always have drinks later’ she said, and embraced him.

He had to admit, she made a compelling argument.

**********

 

They decided to go out for dinner – Clarence drove them down to a lovely little place in Lutz’s Eastern Quarter, and it wasn’t exactly a “date”, but the ambience was nice, and the conversation was good, so Gustave was satisfied. Frankly, he preferred this to a massive celebration; as he’d told himself, turning fifty was just another milestone, and there was no need to make too much of a fuss about it.

And they’d returned home late, and they’d made love again, and Gustave had been pleased that he’d been up for it a second time – he disliked some aspects of ageing, but at least his virility showed no sign of diminishing.

Well, that wasn’t _entirely_ true. Admittedly, his stamina wasn’t quite what it used to be – gone were those days where he’d been able to have a quick hook-up in between shifts and return to work right afterwards. These days, he tended to tire more easily, but this wasn’t always a bad thing; resting with his partners in the aftermath was actually quite romantic, and a bit of extra cuddling was always welcomed.

‘You always smell so good,’ said Eliza, as she leaned against him. ‘What’s the name of that perfume you use? Eau de Panache, or something like that?’

‘L’Air de Panache, yes,’ he said, still feeling a little dazed. ‘I started using it a long time ago, and so many people have complimented me on it that I haven’t gone without it since.’

‘It suits you,’ she told him.

‘ _Led by that perfume to these lands of ease,’_ he said, wistfully,

_‘I see a port where many ships have flown_

_With sails outwearied of the wandering seas;_

_While the faint odours from green tamarisks blown –‘_

‘ – That’s Baudelaire, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘It _is_ ,’ he replied, ‘I do love that you know that. Do you need another drink?’

‘If you’re offering, I’d love one’ she said, rolling over to rest her head on the pillows.

He threw on his dressing gown and headed downstairs to the drinks cabinet. He meant to go straight to it, but he was distracted by the faint sound of music drifting down the hallway, and felt the need to investigate it. It seemed to be coming from inside the small sitting room, so he cautiously opened the door and peered inside.

 _Dmitri_. There he was, lounging in his silk robe, half-asleep on one of the couches. The gramophone in the corner was playing at full volume, and there was a half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. He should probably say something, Gustave thought – he didn’t want the man to drink himself to death, not when his presence was suddenly starting to become somewhat tolerable.

‘Good evening, Dmitri,’ he said, stepping into the room. ‘Didn’t know you liked Schubert – excellent choice, I must say’ he nodded towards the gramophone.

‘Hey, Concierge’ said Dmitri, not even bothering to raise his head. ‘What are you doing here? Don’t you have some old blonde thing you should be fucking?’

His speech was only a little slurred, Gustave noted – at least he wasn’t completely gone.

‘I was just getting us some more drinks,’ he said, picking up the bottle of vodka. ‘Shall I take this away for you? You seem to have had enough.’

He’d expected an outburst from Dmitri (“ _What’s it to you, you fucking queer? I can drink as much as I fucking want!”_ or something along those lines), but to his surprise the Count simply shrugged. In fact, Dmitri _not_ getting angry was almost cause for concern – Gustave had never seen him so despondent.

‘Sure,’ said Dmitri, ‘Do what you want. Fuck it. It’s your house.’

No, Gustave thought, he _had_ seen Dmitri like this before, nearly twenty years ago. He’d felt sorry for the boy then, and… _did_ he feel sorry for him now? The situation was undeniably different – this current version of Dmitri _had_ tried to kill him, after all, whereas that wide-eyed young man had done nothing to wrong him. But still, Gustave didn’t enjoy seeing anyone upset, and everyone needed a shoulder to cry on sometimes.

‘What’s wrong, Dmitri?’ he asked, sitting down on the arm of the couch. ‘Is there something on your mind? I know we haven’t always been on the best of terms, but you _can_ talk to me, you know.’

Dmitri looked uncomfortable. His eyes were quite red.

‘Why?’ he asked, ‘Why would you care?’

‘I’ve got an unhappy guest in my house, and I can’t just ignore him,’ Gustave explained. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

Dmitri stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wide, looking positively haunted.

‘I have a whole fucking lot of regrets,’ he said, ‘a whole lot. My whole goddamn life is one big regret. I never should’ve been born. My mother said so, and maybe she was right. I think of her a lot, you know? Being here, all those memories keep coming back – I deserve all the bad shit that happens to me now, I know I do, but what about back then? What the fuck did I do wrong?’

He was rambling, and Gustave decided to let him continue and just listen. If there had been a few more good listeners in Dmitri’s life, he reckoned the man might not have turned out to be so profoundly troubled.

‘I don’t think I was ever beaten in this room,’ Dmitri continued, ‘so I like it better in here, I suppose. She wanted to beat the bad out of me, and I guess we all know how that plan turned out. And now I’ve still got scars from that, and now she’s dead, and _I_ didn’t kill her, but I kind of _did_ , and… _fuck_ , Gus…’

He sat up, and straightened his robe.

‘I don’t know where I can go from here’ he confessed. ‘My ribs will be better soon, and you’ll want me gone, and I don’t blame you. I think I just fuck up the life of everyone I meet, it’s like I’m cursed.’

He was quiet for quite a while after that, and Gustave only spoke once he was sure there was nothing more to hear.

‘You don’t have to live in the past, Dmitri’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘You brought me my post today – that was a nice thing to do, and I know you wouldn’t have done that even a week ago. Life isn’t fair, but I’ve always said we can make it a lot more bearable if we can just manage to be nice to one another.’

‘It doesn’t undo things,’ said Dmitri. ‘I could act like some fucking saint for the rest of my life, but I’ll always be a murderer. I’ve never been good.’

Was this just the alcohol talking, Gustave wondered, or did Dmitri actually mean all of this? It was strange and jarring to hear him speaking so openly, but at the same time Gustave had never known Dmitri to be stoic or reserved. He just wasn’t a good enough actor to fake his emotions this convincingly.

‘I think there are little bits of good in you,’ said Gustave, ‘Sometimes very little. But they’re in there, underneath all the bitterness and anger and unpleasantness. I mean, the fact that you’re feeling guilty right now tells me you’re not a complete psychopath. I…I really don’t wish you any harm, Dmitri. Perhaps I _should_ want some kind of revenge, but that’s just not how I work. And, seeing as you haven’t tried to kill me over these last few weeks, I think you might feel the same.’

‘I don’t want to kill you,’ Dmitri said, sounding embarrassed at this confession of something which would normally have gone without saying. ‘Not anymore. Maybe one day we can put this whole mess behind us and just go our separate ways. I won’t bother you again once I leave here. That’s a promise.’

Gustave wasn’t sure why, but Dmitri’s promise tugged at something inside him. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to be “bothered”, but – for better or for worse – he’d been through a lot with Dmitri, and the prospect of never seeing him again was… surprisingly upsetting, actually. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, of course; it wasn’t as though they were suddenly going to become the best of friends just because Gustave had done him a favour, but still, it was _difficult_.

‘There’s some good in you,’ he repeated and, throwing caution to the wind, placed his hand on Dmitri’s shoulder. ‘Just try to remember that. It’s all up to you.’

He could never have predicted what happened next.

Dmitri’s long arms wrapped around his waist in a somewhat awkward embrace, which Gustave found himself returning – gently, taking care to avoid those sore ribs.

‘You’re _still_ a goddamn bisexual son of a bitch, by the way,’ said Dmitri, ‘but you’re not all that bad. Even if you _are_ a fucking fruit.’

Gustave smiled. That was the closest thing he’d had to a compliment from Dmitri so far.

‘And _you’re_ still a conniving bastard,’ he replied, as they broke apart from one another, ‘but, luckily for you, I’m very forgiving.’

He could have kissed Dmitri right then and there, but decided against it, not wanting to ruin the trust they seemed to be building.

‘Fuck,’ said Dmitri, ‘it’s late. I’m… I’m going to bed. I’m so fucking drunk right now – I’ll see you tomorrow. Happy birthday.’

‘Goodnight, Dmitri’ said Gustave, then hurried downstairs, remembering that he’d promised Eliza a second drink.

The real, honest potential for changed behaviour was probably the best birthday present Dmitri could have given him.

**********

 

In his room, Dmitri lay awake.

It wasn’t that he was _jealous_ of Gustave’s womanising prowess, exactly (he had absolutely no desire to fuck women several decades older than him – what the fuck? _Who_ was into that?), but there was a chill in the air, and his bed was big and mostly empty, and having someone to hold right now would be…

It would be nice.

Fuck, he always got sentimental when he was drunk. He hated it. Normally, he had a handle on that kind of bullshit, but when he’d had one too many he would inevitably end up getting sappy.

How did that old fruit have so much luck with women (and men), anyway? Certain thoughts drifted into Dmitri’s head, completely uninvited. No, of course he didn’t _want_ to consider what Gustave was like in bed, but surely everyone who knew of the man’s reputation had at least wondered that. No harm could come from just _thinking_ about these things, after all – it was simple curiosity.

He’d be experienced, that was for sure. Oh god, and he was probably all sweet and polite and romantic about it too – sex with him would probably involve poems, which Dmitri didn’t find the least bit appealing. And _fuck_ , all the terms of endearment – Dmitri could imagine it now: “ _darling”_ , “ _my dear_ ”, “ _my love_ ”, all terribly embarrassing. If someone said shit like _that_ while fucking him, he might just die from the sheer humiliation of it all.

And why, in this scenario, would _he_ be the one being fucked? What the _fuck_? Why was he even thinking that? Well, he was just thinking about Gustave from the perspective of one of those women, that was all. Now, if _he_ were to sleep with the man – not that he _would_ – he liked to think he would be a little less passive than that. He wasn’t going to let such a goddamn pansy dominate him, no way. He _definitely_ wasn’t, because this scenario was purely hypothetical, of course, but even so he preferred to think that he would be the dominant one.

Could he do that? He wouldn’t, of course, he wouldn’t – but _could_ he? Could he pin that old fruit to the bed and have his way with him? Would Gustave actually enjoy that, sexual deviant that he was? Probably. The idea didn’t appeal to Dmitri all that much; after all, if he wanted to fuck someone, he could do that with a woman, and that would be fine and healthy and normal. He hadn’t had much luck with women in recent years, and with his reputation in ruins, he doubted they’d be flocking to him at any time in the future.

If he _had_ to get fucked by a man, Gustave wouldn’t be a bad choice – if he _had_ to choose someone. At least it would probably be gentle. Then again, Dmitri didn’t know what kind of perverted things men like _that_ were into, nor did he want to find out. Yes, it was hard to picture Gustave as any kind of sadist, but you never knew where you stood with someone who swung both ways.

God, even the _thought_ of sex with the former concierge was so repulsive that Dmitri knew he’d have to pleasure himself to get these reprehensible images out of his head. He was already starting to get hard – apparently, after months of celibacy, the merest thought of sex was enough to get him going. The fact that he’d been thinking of Gustave actually meant very little, he reasoned – in his current state, he could probably jerk off to a cubist painting or a vaguely woman-shaped vase.

Shit, when _had_ he last been with a woman? As he stroked himself, he tried to remember. There’d been that Belgian hooker, back in…October, he thought. Had it really been _that_ long ago? He tried to picture her in his mind, but it hadn’t been a particularly notable encounter – he couldn’t even remember what colour her hair had been. She’d either been a brunette or a redhead, and her name had been something like Valerie, or possibly Vivian. He needed to picture someone, and this vague memory of a woman would have to do.

His mind, however, had other ideas. Maybe it was just easier to picture Gustave because he saw him so fucking often these days, Dmitri didn’t know. All he knew was that he was suddenly imagining Gustave’s hand stroking him in place of his own, and – even more alarmingly – he didn’t particularly mind it. He was drunk, though, which that might have had something to do with it. He would never do something like this sober, he simply wouldn’t allow it.

What would Gustave do with him, if given the chance? Dmitri’s mind wandered as he gripped himself harder. Would he want to hold him in his arms, like he had earlier, like he had twenty years ago? He’d felt so strong and reassuring, and so gentle – would he be like that in bed as well? _Yes_ , he thought, that didn’t sound so bad at all – a nice, warm body in his arms, holding him tight, pushing him down into the mattress…

That would be… fucked up, definitely, and wrong, but it _did_ sound nice. He rolled onto his back as these thoughts overwhelmed him – he imagined Gustave on top of him, kissing him, caressing him, pushing into him. _What?_ Okay, so apparently his subconscious wasn’t _completely_ opposed to the idea of submitting to the man, and his dick certainly wasn’t. He was shockingly close to finishing already, and the haze of alcohol and arousal was so intoxicating that, for a moment, he didn’t feel guilty.

That didn’t last for long, however; almost immediately after he’d come, he felt so disgusted with himself that – after lying there for a brief moment, in grim contemplation of his actions – he climbed out of bed and headed straight for the shower. The water was cold, and he made no effort to turn up the heat – he probably deserved this punishment for having such deviant thoughts. Fuck, he couldn’t just _fantasise_ about this man he’d spent so many years trying to hate – what the fuck was wrong with him? 

He dried himself off and shivered his way back to bed, furious with himself for having allowed such a lapse in his discipline. He tried his best to relax and get some fucking sleep, but that one unwanted thought lingered on, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

It would be nice to be held by someone.

But he was drunk. He'd be back to normal in the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dmitri realises he has a problem! Great work, Mr. D-u-T, that's the first step.  
> \- I don't know why, but the idea of Gustave being really terrible at poker was so funny to me.  
> \- So, it's starting to get a little bit smutty now, and it's going to be MUCH more so in upcoming chapters, just so you all know.  
> \- This chapter's poem (correctly identified by Eliza Jeszenszky): Exotic Perfume - Charles Baudelaire.


	8. Love and Life: A Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cake and mutual grieving.

_Fuck_. What if he _knew_?

The thought plagued Dmitri the next morning to such an extent that he was reluctant to get out of bed at all. Of course, it was a ridiculous thing to worry about – Gustave may have been skilful at dealing with people, but he wasn’t some psychic. Regardless of this, Dmitri still found it hard to look the man in the eye, for fear of revealing anything shameful. What was more, when he finally worked up the courage to come down to the kitchens for breakfast, Gustave smiled at him as he walked in, the bastard. How was he supposed to deal with that?

It had just been a drunken fantasy, that was all. Everyone had them, so it was no cause for concern. But… Gustave’s smile? What did _that_ mean? Could he know? _How_ would he know that, just a few hours ago, Dmitri had been getting off to the thought of being fucked by him? Fuck, what kind of thoughts could Gustave be having about _him_? He hadn’t even considered that possibility until now.

Did Gustave even _have_ fantasies, or did he just fuck so much that he didn’t have time for them?

 _Fucking sexual deviant_ , thought Dmitri. _Goddamn heartbreaker._

‘Good morning,’ said Gustave, chirpily. ‘Would you like some cake? I have quite a bit left over, and it really is better when it’s fresh.’

Hmm. Cake for breakfast _did_ sound appealing, he had to admit. Was there a catch? There didn’t seem to be.

‘Thanks, Concierge’ he said, cutting himself a slice. He _needed_ coffee, so he put a kettle on the stove to boil, taking a bite out of the slice as he did so. He hadn’t been prepared for so much flavour, and he let out an unintentional hum of satisfaction.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Gustave.

‘’S fucking outstanding,’ he said, taking another bite. ‘Goddamn. That Mendl’s girl made this?’

‘Agatha, yes,’ Gustave replied. ‘She’s _very_ talented. She named this recipe after me, you know.’

‘Figures,’ said Dmitri. ‘It _does_ taste a little fruity.’

Gustave laughed (he had such a _nice_ laugh, Dmitri thought – so soft and pleasant. Wait, _shit_. He shouldn’t be thinking that.)

‘Still delicious though, isn’t it?’ said Gustave, and goddamn that little jab at him had backfired spectacularly, and it was too early in the morning for Dmitri to think of a way out of this.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Still fucking good.’

‘Being friends with a baker has its advantages,’ said Gustave. ‘She’s a wonderful girl – always sending me things. One of these days, she’ll set up her own bakery, I’m sure of it, and I’ll be more than happy to help her. For the sake of the people’s taste-buds, if nothing else!’

‘Have you ever gone to bed with her?’

Gustave looked surprised. Dmitri didn’t see why; it seemed like a reasonable question, given the man’s history.

‘Not with her, no,’ he said. ‘She’s lovely, but she’s _much_ too young for my tastes.’

‘ _I go to bed with all my friends_ ’ said Dmitri, badly impersonating Gustave’s accent as he poured water into the coffee pot. ‘If you say shit like that, people are _going_ to make assumptions.’

‘Hmm…’ said Gustave, ‘I suppose so, yes. Not _all_ of my friends, then. Just most of them.’

Which of his friends _hadn’t_ he slept with? Dmitri couldn’t help but wonder.

‘Have you ever fucked…’ he thought about it for a second, ‘…that policeman friend of yours?’

Gustave shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ve known Albert since he was a child – it wouldn’t feel right. Besides, as far as I know, he favours women.’

‘Fair. Those men from the prison?’

‘Surprisingly kind-hearted, but not my type.’

‘That little foreign man?’

Gustave looked perplexed, furrowing his brow.

‘Zero?’ he said. ‘Dmitri, he’s young enough to be my son!’

‘ _You_ were young enough to be my mother’s son.’

‘ _And_ he works for me. I never sleep with my staff.’

That was surprising, Dmitri thought – he hadn’t had Gustave down as some bastion of morality where sex was concerned.

‘How come?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ Gustave explained, ‘it would be a little coercive, wouldn’t it? They might fear losing their job if they turned down my advances, and that wouldn’t do. I don’t want to seem predatory; it wouldn’t be good for my reputation _or_ my soul.’

‘Huh,’ said Dmitri, ‘didn’t think your dick had such a moral compass. I’m impressed.’

It only occurred to him after the words had left his mouth that _perhaps_ bringing up another man’s dick wasn’t the best way to assert his heterosexuality. He really ought to start thinking more before he said things (he’d vowed to do this many times over the years, and it had yet to happen).

‘Well, one has to have morals,’ said Gustave. ‘Sets us apart from the animals, and all that. I know I can’t be considered chaste by any means, but I do have _some_ self-control. Now, I’d expect a man of _your_ standing to have had quite an adventurous love life, Your Excellency.’

God, what was happening to him? A few months ago, he would have seriously contemplated killing Gustave for showing such disrespect, but he’d since grown desensitised to the man. Perhaps the cake had helped his mood.

‘Missed the part where that was any of your business’ he retorted.

‘ _You’re_ the one who likes to pry,’ Gustave pointed out. ‘I’m just speaking from experience. I’ve known a lot of rich men – many of them in the biblical sense – and so often all that decorum and propriety is just an act.’

In Dmitri’s opinion, it was far too early in the day to be interrogated so thoroughly.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘well at least I’ve never been paid for sex.’

‘Touché. Though I’m certain you’d do very well in that field if you only worked on your temper.’

‘Oh, fuck off!’ Dmitri spat.

‘See what I mean?’ said Gustave, dryly.

‘Are you saying I’d make a good hooker?’ Dmitri asked. ‘You’d pay to fuck me, would you, you fruit? Christ, just because _you’re_ some fucking…candy-ass son-of-a-bitch motherfucker-‘

Gustave was still smiling. Dmitri let his avalanche of slurs trail off, as it clearly wasn’t having any effect on the man.

‘Dmitri,’ he said, ‘I’m just saying you’re a good-looking man. Oh, don’t make that face, it’s true. Surely you’ve been told that before?’

He had to think about that for a moment, but came to the conclusion that, truthfully, he hadn’t. Well, not by anyone who wasn’t just after his money and power, at least – there had been plenty of those, especially in his youth. He _tried_ not to let his late mother’s words influence him anymore, but when he’d been told so many times that he was too thin, and sickly-looking, and that his nose – like his father’s – was too prominent for his face… well, it was hard to untangle that from the way he viewed himself.

‘You’re one to talk, looking like that.’ Oh _fuck_. He’d said that out loud, hadn’t he? Shit, _shit_ , how could he cover that up?

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Gustave, curiously.

Oh _no_.

‘Well,’ said Dmitri, ‘I’m just saying, you must have been told that a lot. That you’re handsome, I mean. Because you wouldn’t have fucked so many people if they didn’t think you were hot. An uglier man couldn’t possibly have become such a goddamn whore.’

Gustave looked pleased.

‘Thank you, Dmitri’ he said. ‘Sadly, much of my youthful beauty has faded over the years, but such is life, I suppose. None of us are immune to the cruel passage of time.’

He needn’t have worried, Dmitri thought. Granted, he didn’t look the _same_ now as he had at thirty, but he still had that smooth voice and those pretty blue eyes, and the slight softening of his features with age had only made him look kinder and more welcoming. And he certainly seemed to have remained in good shape underneath those three-piece suits, and – Jesus _Christ_ , he should _not_ be thinking about this right now. Or ever. What the _fuck_?

‘At least we’re still alive’ Dmitri offered.

‘Yes. Exactly!’ said Gustave. ‘We’re alive, we’re both returning to health, and both of us should be fucking grateful. You’re right, Dmitri. Help yourself to more cake if you want some, darling – it’s awfully big, and my metabolism’s not what it used to be.’

Well. A little more couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t as though he’d been eating much recently; his tendency to avoid food during times of stress had never really gone away.

He remembered Gustave, all those years ago, bringing him some food after that disastrously uncomfortable party. He was all right, that old fruit. He was absolutely _infuriating_ , yes, and Dmitri knew he had to stop having these unseemly thoughts about him, but perhaps after all this was over the two of them could remain… friends? Acquaintances?

He’d never known another man like Gustave before, and he decided right then and there that he’d quite like to keep on knowing him.

**********

‘I haven’t heard from you in months,’ said Laetizia, on the other end of the phone. ‘We’ve been worried sick about you, Dimochka – you were in such a state when you left that I wondered if we’d ever see you alive again.’

‘I’m sorry, Tish,’ said Dmitri. ‘The last few months have been a massive goddamn cluster-fuck, and I haven’t been in my right mind. Lots of stuff’s been happening.’

‘It’s okay,’ his sister replied. ‘I’m just glad to hear from you. Where are you now? I assumed you’ve found somewhere to stay, because I know for a fact you couldn’t have survived this long on the streets.’

Should he lie? No, he decided; ever since his trial, his sisters had been his only real allies, and they had always been there for him – they deserved to know the truth.

‘I, uhh…’ he said. ‘It’s actually a funny story. I’ve been back at home.’

‘Home?’ Laetizia asked. ‘At Schloss Lutz? I thought mother’s old gigolo was living there now, and I know how you despise him. Oh god, you haven’t killed him, have you? Please tell me you didn’t kill him, Dimochka – we don’t need any more trouble.’

‘No, no, it’s fine’ he said. ‘He’s fine. I mean, he got shot.’

‘ _Shot_? Dmitri-‘

‘ _Not_ by me,’ he added. ‘And he’s okay now. I fell into a little altercation and he… well, he let me stay here until I was feeling better.’

‘How charitable,’ said Laetizia, sounding surprised. ‘You try to have the man killed and he’s _still_ willing to help you? Perhaps mother was right about him.’

He could blame their mother for a lot of things, but falling for Gustave wasn’t one of them. He was, as Dmitri had discovered over these last few months, maddeningly easy to like.

‘Perhaps’ Dmitri agreed. ‘He’s been good to me, Tish. He’s still playing concierge, even now he’s retired; he’s been treating me like a regular guest.’

‘So, how often do you go to bed with him?’ she said, teasingly.

‘Fucking hell, Tish!’ he groaned. ‘It’s nothing like that. Unlike him, _I_ don’t sleep with people for favours, you know that.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘I was just trying to wind you up. After all this time, you’re still my little brother.’

‘Stop.’

‘ _Sweet_ little Dimochka,’ she sing-songed. ‘Promise you’ll come and visit us soon – bitching about our troubles is always so much more fun with you here.’

He _had_ missed the three of them. They bickered and teased one another, as he was sure all siblings did, but growing up together under their mother’s oppressive regime had certainly led to the formation of a strong bond between them. For as long as he could remember, his sisters had protected him – they had always testified in his defence, whether in court or in front of their mother. What’s more, his stepfathers had never dared to knock them around, so they’d saved him from quite a few beatings over the years.

Schloss Lutz was a wonderful old place. It was a shame that it was so irrevocably tied to the worst of his memories.

**********

Gustave wasn’t an emotionally repressed man by any means, but he rarely cried. He had wept with relief when he had awoken in hospital to find Zero at his side, and with happiness at receiving his letter at Christmas, and once or twice from pain or frustration as his shoulder had healed. All right, perhaps he _did_ cry a little more than the average man, but he didn’t consider himself overly sensitive.

Which is why it was so strange that he found himself in his favourite sitting room, sobbing quietly with his head in his hands. Well, on any other day of the year it would have been strange; on this particular day, he always found himself in need of some emotional catharsis, and sometimes the best way to deal with these things was to simply let everything out. It was an unhappy little ritual of his, but he usually felt better once it was done.

‘Evening, Concierge.’

Oh. There was Dmitri, standing in the doorframe. Gustave didn’t particularly want his guest to see him like this – _he_ knew this didn’t make him weak, but Dmitri would probably think differently. Normally, Dmitri’s insults did nothing to bother him, but in this state he wasn’t sure he could deal with the man’s bitterness.

‘Good evening, Dmitri’ he turned to face him, trying his best to look dignified (though he knew he looked dreadfully unattractive when he cried).

‘Oh shit’ Dmitri’s face fell (or rather, fell further – even his resting face was rather melancholy). ‘Should I leave?’

‘You can come in, if you want,’ said Gustave, ‘but I’m not sure I’ll be good company. I’m afraid you’re seeing me at my worst.’

‘You’ve seen me at my worst’ Dmitri pointed out. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re really asking?’

‘Yeah. You look fucking devastated. Did someone die?’

He wasn’t exactly tactful, but the fact that he cared enough to ask was something, at least.

‘It’s…’ he blinked, a few more tears spilling over onto his cheeks. ‘I don’t suppose it’s something you’d understand. It probably shouldn’t affect me as much as it does, not at my age, it’s just… it’s the anniversary of my mother’s death.’

Dmitri’s eyebrows rose.

‘Damn,’ he said, and then, ‘…Sorry.’

‘Thank you. She was a very great woman, gone far too soon.’

More tears were shed. Gustave braced himself for a snide comment from Dmitri, but none came. He just sat there, perched on the edge of the couch, looking quietly thoughtful.

‘That’s a shame’ he finally said.

‘Truly’ said Gustave. ‘I didn’t think you’d understand, what with your relationship with your own mother, but mine meant an awful lot to me.’

He was positively startled when Dmitri reached out to take his hand. He had very lovely hands; they were large, yet delicate, with long, thin fingers. Gustave wondered if Dmitri had ever played the piano – those hands could have been built for it.

‘My father died when I was seven’ Dmitri said. ‘He was a good man. I didn’t know him for long, but I loved him very much.’

Gustave had known that Céline had been a widow, but somehow he’d never connected the death of her husband with Dmitri’s loss of a father.

‘I’m sorry’ he said. ‘That must have been hard.’

‘Yeah’ Dmitri squeezed his hand. ‘Tell me about her. What was she like?’

Oh, how to sum up a person’s entire life in words alone? Dmitri couldn’t fully understand, of course, not when their lives had been so radically different. He knew nothing of the panic that financial uncertainty could bring. He’d never felt the guilt of watching one’s loved ones go hungry when there wasn’t enough food to go around. He’d probably never even had to feel the cold at night. But then, from the sounds of it, he’d never experienced much love either, and _that_ was what had made all of these things bearable.

‘Florence H. was a seamstress,’ he said, trying his best to keep his voice steady. ‘She was one of five children. Only she and my uncle survived into adulthood. I was her only child. I never knew my father – he died soon after my birth, you see, so she had to raise me alone. We were a very small and humble family, but we were happy. She loved poetry – you can see, now, where my passion for it started; I could quote poems before I could even count. And she always told me…’

He sighed. He could still picture her face in his mind’s eye, and hoped to never forget it. He took after her in his looks, he was told – both of them with the same blonde hair and the same eyes. Although he likely wouldn’t carry on her legacy by having children of his own, he could at least keep her spirit alive by embodying all those values she held dear.

‘She told me to be kind’ he continued. ‘And to help people, when I could. She said the world would be a much better place if we all cared for one another a little more. Sometimes, I like to think she’d be proud of where I ended up. I _have_ spent most of my life caring for people, after all.’

He swallowed, hard.

‘She died of scarlet fever a week after my thirteenth birthday. I went to live with my uncle for a little while after that, and I started working at the Grand Budapest at sixteen. And that’s… that’s about it. Of course, my roots are nowhere near as exciting or glamorous as yours, but thank you for listening.’

It was painful, but he felt better for having recounted the story. The least he could do for the late and great Florence H. was keep her memory alive.

‘I’m sorry’ Dmitri repeated. It seemed to be the only response he was able to give.

‘What about your father?’ Gustave asked. ‘As long as it’s not a sensitive subject.’

‘It’s okay’ said Dmitri. ‘Fuck, we’re really spilling our souls tonight, huh? Not much to say, really; he was nice to me, I think he’d always wanted a son. Really tall man, real lanky – although I guess I was also much smaller then. Used to lift me up on his shoulders and I’d be taller than everyone.’

Lord, there was such sadness in his eyes. Things could have turned out so differently, thought Gustave, if only Dmitri had grown up being loved. How unjust it was to lose a parent at such a tender age.

‘And he just… _died_ one day. I think it was his heart – that’s what mother told me, at least. I still don’t understand it; he was still young, and he was fine – he didn’t have to die! It didn’t make sense! She got married again a month later. And I _know_ how sensitive she was, and I _know_ she couldn’t stand to be alone, but he was barely in the fucking ground. And _I_ missed him too.’

Now, it was Dmitri who was fighting back tears. He was too proud to let his sadness overtake him, though; instead, his eyes went glassy and unfocused, and he stared forward at nothing.

‘Life can be cruel’ said Gustave. ‘The good shouldn’t die young.’

‘I never felt safe again after he died,’ Dmitri confessed. ‘Never. I had two stepfathers. They weren’t kind to me. To them, I was just some other man’s son.’

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, but Dmitri’s hand remained on top of Gustave’s. It was odd, Gustave thought; this man, who was often so averse to physical contact, also seemed to seek it out whenever he could. He _had_ mentioned that Céline had rarely - if ever - held him as a young boy, which, frankly, would explain a lot. He knew neediness when he saw it, and Dmitri showed many of the signs of a man starved of affection.

The Count probably liked women, Gustave assumed, but affection didn’t necessarily have to be romantic in nature. Seeing as they were both eager to receive attention, this could potentially turn into a mutually beneficial friendship, so long as Dmitri didn’t try anything silly like committing a murder or getting himself shot by the police.

(To be fair, the last one could happen to almost anyone these days – the centimetre-wide dent in his right shoulder was testament to that).

‘ _All my past life is mine no more,’_ he said.

‘ _The flying hours are gone._

_Like transitory dreams giv’n o’er,_

_Whose images are kept in store_

_By memory alone.’_

‘…Yeah’ said Dmitri.

‘Would you like to go out tonight?’ Gustave asked. ‘If I’m going to feel miserable, I might as well feel miserable somewhere else, and you’ve been cooped up in this old place for an age now. Some fresh air might do us both good.’

‘In Lutz?’ Dmitri asked. ‘You think that’s a good idea? Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly popular here these days – what if someone sees me?’

‘Well, we could always disguise you’ Gustave suggested. ‘Granted, you’re quite a distinctive-looking man, but I’m sure if you borrowed some of my clothes no-one would recognise you from a distance.’

It was probably a terrible, reckless idea, and both of them were overflowing with emotions and in no fit state to think rationally, but it did sound _fun_.

‘Your clothes?’ Dmitri exclaimed. ‘They’ll think I look like some fucking sissy from a distance! I’ll probably get the shit beaten out of me anyway.’

Ah yes, there was the old Dmitri. It was almost reassuring that he had enough energy left in him to be a bastard.

‘Well, it’s all about how you carry yourself,’ said Gustave. ‘No-one’s more of a “ _fucking sissy_ ” than yours truly, but I do it with confidence, and I don’t run into much trouble.’

That was how, a couple of minutes later, Dmitri ended up rifling through the wardrobes in Gustave’s bedroom, growing increasingly annoyed with every new article of clothing he discovered.

‘What the fuck is _this_?’ he asked, flinging a shirt aside.

‘It’s mauve.’

‘It’s reprehensible.’

‘Not everyone’s wardrobe is entirely black, Dmitri,’ said Gustave. ‘For a man who’s broken ties with the Zig-Zags, you certainly do like to dress like them.’

‘ _Hey_ ,’ Dmitri protested, ‘I was wearing black a _long_ time before those assholes came along. If anything, they’re all dressing like _me_. What the fuck do you call _this_?’

‘I’d call it cerulean.’

‘I’d call it bullshit. There’s nothing here I would be caught dead wearing.’

‘Precisely,’ said Gustave. ‘If you wear _this_ , for example,’ he retrieved a rather fetching powder blue blazer from the back of the wardrobe, ‘absolutely _no-one_ will recognise you as the infamous Mr. D-u-T. At least try it on – you might find that you quite enjoy a change of style.’

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursing until they almost disappeared beneath his moustache.

‘Okay’ he said. ‘Just this once. And _just_ as a disguise.’

He grabbed the jacket from Gustave’s hands, along with a couple of other things from the wardrobe, and stormed off into the bathroom to change.

‘They might be a bit too big for you,’ Gustave warned him, ‘since you’re so wonderfully slim.’

‘Fuck off’ came Dmitri’s voice from behind the door.

‘It’s the truth, darling. Perhaps you could smooth down your hair a little. There’s some pomade in there you can use.’

Sure enough, when he emerged again, Dmitri looked radically different. Admittedly, if one actually studied his features in any detail, he would probably be recognised, but it was a good enough disguise to fool the casual observer. As predicted, the suit wasn’t quite small enough for his slim frame, and the trouser legs weren’t quite long enough but, if anything, the effect was rather… _endearing_.

‘Don’t you say a word’ he warned.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it’ Gustave replied. God, he _was_ quite fetching like this – the blue really brought out his eyes (but he knew that saying as much would only anger Dmitri further, and so he said nothing).

If Dmitri could just manage to keep his mouth shut and not punch anyone, they might actually have quite a pleasant evening stroll.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I really got the impression while watching the film that (in quite a Great Gatsby fashion), Gustave came from humble beginnings, and that to some extent his posh and flamboyant self is sort of a persona he's created (I think Wes Anderson might have even confirmed this somewhere).  
> \- I like the idea of Dmitri being close with his sisters (they're all mean aristocratic goths, but at least they're still somewhat protective of their little brother).  
> \- The image of Dmitri wearing some of Gustave's clothes and being too long and skinny for them was just... so funny to me, I had to include it.  
> \- This chapter's poem: 'Love and Life: A Song' by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.


	9. Amor Mundi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gustave and Dmitri spend a pleasant evening in Lutz.

Ah, Lutz. Dmitri loved the city, and also hated it. From a purely aesthetic point of view, it was beautiful, especially at night, when all the old buildings were lit up by the faint golden glow of the streetlamps and the alleyways were excitingly dark. A man could lurk easily here, and Dmitri liked to lurk (though he couldn’t exactly blend into the shadows dressed like _this_ ). Wandering the streets had been quite relaxing when he’d had Jopling by his side; he’d known the hitman would be able to deal with any trouble that arose.

With Gustave, however, he didn’t feel quite so safe. This was a man who was well-accustomed to dealing with guests, but not so much with hand-to-hand combat. Well, that was what Dmitri assumed, at least. Gustave definitely didn’t _look_ like he’d ever thrown a punch in his life, and he himself had never been particularly good in a fight (despite his willingness to start them). If they were attacked out here, they were well and truly _fucked_.

‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?’ Gustave remarked. ‘Just look at all those stars.’

‘They’re good’ Dmitri agreed, casually.

‘You can see them much clearer out in the countryside,’ said Gustave. ‘When I was a boy, I used to climb up onto the roof and watch them.’

‘My father had a telescope,’ said Dmitri. ‘Just a small one. We’d look at the sky with it sometimes.’

Gustave chuckled.

‘We could never have afforded a telescope’ he said. ‘Not even a small one.’

‘And _I_ would never have been allowed to climb on the roof.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Gustave. ‘Would you like to get a drink somewhere?’

Hmm. Were there any bars in this goddamn city where he _wouldn’t_ be recognised? The Three Crowns was out of the question; he’d started a fistfight in there. And in The Bleeding Heart. And he’d called the bartender at The Eagle’s Nest a goddamn cocksucker, so his presence there probably wouldn’t be appreciated.

‘A drink?’ he asked. ‘What is this, a date? Are you gonna buy me flowers next? Romance me like I’m one of your old harlots?’

‘Believe me, darling,’ said Gustave, ‘if I were romancing you, you would _know_.’

What followed was a long and heated debate about Lutz’s various bars, and the merits and drawbacks of each, which ended with both of them sitting on a park bench with a fairly cheap but good bottle of red wine. Dmitri hadn’t had Gustave down as the sort to drink in public, but clearly he’d been wrong. It wasn’t exactly a classy way to spend an evening; Dmitri remembered doing something similar with his circle of acquaintances when he was sixteen.

‘Had my first drink in this park’ he said, handing the bottle back to Gustave. ‘Well, my first and then quite a few more. Jopling had to carry me back home.’

‘He must have been quite a lot stronger than his size’ Gustave mused. ‘There’s a lot of you to carry.’

‘Well, I was a scrawny little fuck’ said Dmitri. ‘Lucky I had him to protect me, really, or else I’d probably have been fucking murdered.’

Dmitri wondered if it was a little queer to be sharing a bottle with another man. After all, their lips had both touched it, and who knew where Gustave’s mouth had been? Still, it was good wine, and he wasn’t about to turn down a chance to drown his sorrows.

‘I didn’t have much of a chance to get drunk in my youth,’ said Gustave. ‘I was on a tight schedule at the Grand Budapest, you see – I had to be up early every morning, so I couldn’t risk a hangover.’

‘But screwing your guests was fine?’

Gustave smiled. His lips, Dmitri noticed, were a little stained from wine, and a light blush was spreading across his cheeks. He looked… _sweet_ , god _damn_ him. He was normally so refined, so composed; it was nice to see him a little more relaxed.

‘I was nineteen, the first time that happened,’ he said, looking pensive. ‘Etienne Delafontaine. I’m sure you can imagine the type; she was blonde, recently widowed, at least twice my age. I, of course, was dreadfully inexperienced, but she seemed to find me charming enough. At any rate, she was there all summer… I didn’t stay inexperienced for long.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘She certainly taught me a few things.’

‘Seems like she was a bad influence’ said Dmitri.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that’ said Gustave. ‘I’m sure there are a _lot_ of women who’d disagree with you there.’

‘And men’ Dmitri added.

‘And men,’ Gustave conceded, ‘though I didn’t start with that until I was twenty-one – which was quite the shock for me, because at the time I was sure that I was strictly a ladies’ man.’

This absolute _fruit_ had actually thought he was straight at one point? That was surprising – but then, Dmitri thought, Gustave _did_ seem to be full of surprises.

‘What made you change your mind?’ Dmitri asked.

Again, Gustave looked thoughtful, and handed the bottle back to him.

‘I suppose the desire had always been there, deep down,’ he said. ‘I’d just never met a man who wanted me like that before, and when the… opportunity first presented itself, I thought “why not?” Life is short. I love to love, so I take whatever intimacy I can get, and I’m not particularly fussy about which parts are involved.’

Dmitri wasn’t sure how the man could discuss his sex life with such shameless confidence. He knew people _did_ these things, of course, but few of them were quite so comfortable talking about it – wasn’t it meant to be something you kept quiet about?

‘You’re a hedonist’ he said, taking a swig from the bottle and passing it back to Gustave.

‘Perhaps,’ Gustave admitted, observing the bottle in his hands. ‘The way I see it, I’m keeping my options open. I mean, I like red wine, and I like white wine – why would I want to only drink one for the rest of my life?’

Dmitri wasn’t sure if he’d ever fully understand it. He’d always presumed that all men who fucked one another were degenerates and social outcasts, but Gustave was more than that. He was mostly a decent person. He had morals and principles and was well-liked by many. Besides, couldn’t _everyone_ appreciate a good-looking man? Hell, he’d been close with Jopling, especially when they’d both been young. It hadn’t turned into anything sexual, but his bodyguard had comforted him on many occasions, sometimes even holding him when he struggled to fall asleep at night. He’d quite liked that man’s hard little body pressed against his own, so he could _sort_ of understand that need for intimacy.

(There had also been that kiss with Nikolay, his dorm-mate at boarding school, but that didn’t count.)

‘We probably shouldn’t drink too much of this,’ said Gustave. ‘Jopling may have been able to carry you home, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to – don’t want to put too much strain on this blasted fucking shoulder.’

Dmitri liked hearing Gustave swear. He didn’t want to think about why that might be.

‘How _is_ your shoulder?’ he asked.

‘Much better, thank you’ Gustave replied. ‘I won’t be performing any acrobatic manoeuvres in the near future but, then again, I wasn’t before I got shot. It’s still quite stiff.’

It hadn’t been nice to see Gustave in pain, so Dmitri was pleased, as well as being mildly concerned that he’d suddenly developed this level of empathy. When had _that_ happened? Holy fuck. He’d started out playing nice with Gustave out of pettiness, and now it seemed he actually cared for the fucker.

‘Well,’ said Dmitri, ‘you can always have one of your old madames rub it for you, I guess.’

Gustave smirked.

‘You’re just _begging_ me to make an innuendo right now’ he said.

‘I am _not_!’ Dmitri protested. ‘Get your mind out of the gutter.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Gustave. ‘You’re just as bad, you know.’

They strolled along for a moment, in silence.

‘And your shoulder’s not _all_ you want them to rub’ Dmitri blurted out, unable to stop himself from laughing at his own joke.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Gustave laughed, ‘you _are_ just as bad as me.’

‘I joke about it,’ said Dmitri, ‘you’re the one who actually _does_ it. _Wait_ …’ he lowered his voice. ‘ _Shit_. Don’t fucking make any noise, just keep walking.’

‘What is it?’ Gustave whispered.

‘That man across the street _isn’t_ a friend of mine,’ Dmitri pointed at him, trying not to make it obvious. ‘Anatoly Volkov. Thought that son of a bitch had left the country years ago, don’t know what the fuck he’s doing here.’

Anatoly Volkov was an absolute terror of a man – he was several inches shorter than Dmitri, but what he lacked in height he more than made up for in brawn. In his thirty-nine years of life, Dmitri’s nose had been broken three times, and Anatoly was responsible for one of these (mere seconds later, courtesy of the late J.G. Jopling, the Russian had found himself missing several teeth).

Dmitri didn’t know why the man continued to take their feud so seriously – it wasn’t as though there’d been any _personal_ motive when he’d blown the whistle on Anatoly’s smuggling ring and had him arrested so that Jopling could take it over. It had been a business opportunity! He would have screwed over _anyone_ in that situation, so he didn’t see why Anatoly insisted on being such a little bitch about it. Anyway, he’d _had_ to be mercenary; it wasn’t as though his mother had ever been generous with money, despite having more than she could have feasibly spent in a lifetime.

‘Well!’ said Anatoly, crossing the street.

‘ _Fuck_ ’ Dmitri hissed.

‘Good evening’ said Gustave.

‘Mitya,’ said Anatoly, a grim smile on his face. ‘Could that really be you? It’s been a while, but I’d recognise that face anywhere. I have to say, though, you’ve changed up your look – I’d heard about your fall from grace, but I didn’t realise you’d become a rent boy.’

Shit, he’d almost forgotten he was dressed like _that_. Although he was seeing red, Dmitri remembered that he’d only recently healed from the last time he’d had the shit beaten out of him, so he _tried_ not to escalate things.

‘Yeah, sure – very funny, asshole’ he said, stepping back a little. ‘How about we both fuck off and leave one another alone?’

As he stepped back, Anatoly stepped forwards. Shit, _shit_ , this wasn’t going to work, was it?

‘It _is_ funny,’ he said, ‘because I don’t see that little hitman of yours around, so there’s really nothing to stop me from giving you what you deserve.’

Oh, god, he should have learnt to be a better negotiator. He’d had plenty of opportunities to learn – what was the point of having had such a thorough and expensive education if you couldn’t manage to stay out of trouble?

‘There’ll be no need for that, Mr. Volkov’ said Gustave, cautiously tapping Anatoly on the shoulder. ‘I think we can handle this like civilised men.’

‘This one’s not a civilised man,’ Anatoly laughed. ‘This is between the two of us. Move along, unless you feel like getting hurt.’

To Dmitri’s surprise, Gustave didn’t walk away. What the fuck was he doing? What did he think he _could_ do? Then again, if Gustave really was on his side, they’d be two against one – _maybe_ they would stand a chance of getting out of this relatively unharmed.

‘ _Look,_ ’ said Gustave, his demeanour turning startlingly cold, ‘I’m not going to stand idly by and watch you hurt this man. If you want to work out your differences, I’ll allow it, but you will _not_ touch him.’

Holy fuck, he’d never realised how intimidating Gustave could be. It was all in the eyes – that warm benevolence could turn into an icy glare lightning fast, and the look he was giving Anatoly was nothing short of murderous.

‘Or what?’ said Anatoly, refusing to back down. ‘You think you can take me?’

‘I’d rather not’ said Gustave. ‘So why don’t you leave us be? I’m too old to be getting into fights on the street, and-‘

It all happened so quickly that Dmitri barely had time to process it. As Anatoly lunged forwards, Gustave’s fist connected with his jaw, and the larger man crumpled to the pavement, out stone cold. Dmitri himself felt equally stunned.

‘Holy shit!’ he exclaimed. ‘How the fuck did you do that?’

‘Well, one has to learn these things’ said Gustave, straightening the sleeves of his jacket. ‘Come on, let’s head back. I have a feeling Mr. Volkov won’t be bothering us anymore.’

The heap of Anatoly behind them groaned in pain.

Dmitri knew he should probably feel embarrassed that his ass had just been saved by such an effeminate man, but he could only feel impressed. God, Gustave was a _man_. How could someone who wore so much perfume _also_ be so proficient in a fistfight? Where the fuck had he learnt to do that?

When they passed back through the gates of Schloss Lutz, Dmitri was filled with a newfound respect for his acquaintance. Or was he more than that? Gustave hadn’t _had_ to stand up for him like that – he could have been seriously hurt. Anyone who’d risk their life for him like that… well, they could only be considered a friend.

**********

 

Once he was back into his own clothes and had appropriately re-dishevelled his hair, Dmitri felt much more comfortable. Gustave may have been able to make bold colours work, but he himself would always prefer neutral tones. He threw on his dressing gown over his underclothes; it was far too late in the evening to bother with putting on anything formal. Still, the powder blue suit that lay crumpled on the floor _bothered_ him. He really ought to return that to its rightful place, he thought – having Gustave’s clothes on his bedroom floor felt somehow indecent.

Yes, he would do that. Besides, he didn’t feel tired just yet, and a late-night chat with Gustave seemed like a good idea – assuming, of course, that the man was still awake, which he probably would be after such an exciting evening.

It was fine to go into a friend’s room at night. There was nothing wrong with that, even if said friend did happen to have a certain reputation. With this in mind, Dmitri rapped on the door, loudly.

‘Come in’ called Gustave, from inside.

‘Your clothes’ said Dmitri, strolling into the room and dropping them unceremoniously onto the bed. ‘They’re hideous, of course, but I thought you’d want them back.’

‘Thank you, Dmitri’ said Gustave. He was standing out on the balcony, gazing up at the stars, probably recalling some poem about the night-time, or the immensity of the universe, or something like that.

There was, undeniably, something magnetic about the former concierge; Dmitri found himself stepping out onto the balcony to stand beside him in the cold night air.

‘Nice view from up here’ he commented.

‘Truly’ Gustave agreed. ‘ _Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing_

_On the west wind blowing along this valley track?_

_The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,_

_We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’_

For fuck’s sake? Really? Then again, Dmitri could hardly be surprised; if a time ever came when Gustave _didn’t_ start reciting poetry out of the blue, he might fear there was something wrong with the man. He had the right voice for it, very calm and soothing, and his lips were mesmerising as the words spilled from them – Dmitri found it quite hard to look away.

‘ _Turn again, O my sweetest – turn again, false and fleetest:_

 _This beaten way thou beatest I fear is Hell’s own –_ Mmm!’

The poem was interrupted at once, as Dmitri – in a purely impulsive act – grabbed Gustave and roughly pressed their lips together.

This was a terrible idea, he knew it, and he was sure he would regret it later. After just a few seconds of kissing he was so embarrassed that could almost have flung himself from the edge of the balcony to bring this humiliation to an end.

 _God_ , what had possessed him to do that? Well, that was it, wasn’t it? He couldn’t take _that_ back. He pulled away from Gustave, and he didn’t _mean_ to make eye contact with the bastard, but he did, and why did he have to look so fucking charming? Those big, pretty eyes were wide open in surprise, and those thin lips were slightly parted, and the lapels of his jacket were uneven where Dmitri had clung to them.

Then, _then_ there was the aftermath. There was no sound, save for the both of them panting to regain their breath, and the rustling of the wind, and-

‘Dmitri…’ Gustave breathed. ‘Are you… all right? In your right mind, and everything?’

Dmitri swallowed hard.

‘I think so’ he said - although in truth, he didn’t know. ‘I was just…I mean, it was a long poem.’

It _had_ been a long poem, damn it, and how _else_ was he meant to shut Gustave up, and what else was he meant to say?

‘Your enthusiasm’s admirable,’ said Gustave as he smiled, cautiously. ‘But your technique could use a little work. If you ever want to kiss me, you only have to ask.’

He looked unfortunately handsome under the moonlight. Dmitri knew he shouldn’t be thinking that, but it was true. He looked handsome, and he looked kind, and his presence made Dmitri feel… _fuck_ , how _did_ he feel? Whatever it was, he’d felt it so rarely throughout his life that he could barely recognise it.

Oh, that was it. He felt _safe_. Gustave wouldn’t hurt him, would he? He’d had plenty of opportunities to be cruel to him, and so far he’d only been kind and giving. There was nothing to fear from this man, was there?

‘Can I ask?’

And Gustave’s hand was on his shoulder, and then his face, and how were his hands so _soft_ when he’d spent a lifetime in the service industry? He was being seduced right now, and he knew it, and it felt good enough that he didn’t care.

‘Of course.’

Gustave leaned in, and their lips touched again, much more certain this time, and much less forcefully. It was a surprisingly chaste kiss, all things considered. Teasing, thought Dmitri – he’d imagined Gustave to be a far more lascivious kisser, but he supposed that came later.

Damn that son of a bitch, how _dare_ he make it this hard for Dmitri to maintain his composure? He really didn’t _want_ to swoon like some weak-kneed young girl, but he hadn’t been this close to another person in a long while, and Gustave’s lips were so incredibly fucking smooth (the vain fucker probably used some kind of balm on them). So, despite his intention to remain stoic, Dmitri melted into the other man’s touch as though it were the first pleasant thing he’d ever experienced.

‘There,’ said Gustave as they pulled apart again, ‘that’s better, isn’t it?’

He could walk away now and still retain some dignity, Dmitri thought. He could just claim he’d had a temporary lapse in judgement (it wasn’t like that had never happened before). His face felt hot; he knew he must be blushing like a fucking idiot right now, and hoped that Gustave wouldn’t notice this in the darkness.

Yes, he could have walked away, but instead he’d leaned closer for Gustave to kiss him again, and he’d realised how much he liked it, and there were tongues and hands involved and _this_ was closer to how he’d pictured this encounter.

He wasn’t quite sure _how_ he’d ended up straddling Gustave on a couch, but it had happened, and he’d somehow managed to get the bastard’s jacket off as well. This was _ridiculous_ – he was going to hate himself for this tomorrow morning, he was sure of it. For now, though, he was far too preoccupied with Gustave’s _stupid_ goddamn face to care about any of that.

What the _fuck_ was he doing? Gustave’s body was quite firm beneath him – subtly, Dmitri tried to press himself closer to it. Apparently, he’d been correct in assuming that the man had stayed in good shape over the years. Oh, and there were Gustave’s fingers, running through his hair. How could he have _known_ he was into that? To his surprise, Gustave didn’t seem to be trying to dominate him; if he _was_ , it wasn’t by force, but by sheer gentleness.

It was working wonders. Dmitri suddenly realised how obviously aroused he’d become, and hoped Gustave wouldn’t notice – he didn’t want to stroke the man’s ego _too_ much, after all. Of course, he could put this down to lack of physical contact in recent months. He wasn’t specifically getting hard for Gustave. That would just be fucking queer.

He sure as hell wasn’t going to stop doing this, though. Hell, he started kissing Gustave with renewed vigour, hoping to distract him.

‘Mm, Dmitri…’ Gustave sighed, looking dreadfully pleased with himself. ‘Enjoying yourself, darling?’

Oh _fuck_.

‘Well, it’s not like you’re bad at this, Concierge’ he replied, trying to sound non-committal.

 ‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ said Gustave. ‘You do seem a little tense. My apologies if I’m being too forward, and you’d be quite within your rights to say no, but would my mouth perhaps be put to better use elsewhere?’

Only Gustave would describe sucking dick so eloquently, thought Dmitri. At least he’d been the one to suggest it – Dmitri felt he might have died of embarrassment if he’d had to ask, and seeing as he was almost painfully turned on, Gustave’s proposal came as a relief.

‘You, uh…’ he said, not wanting to seem _too_ eager. ‘You can always _try_ , I guess. Just don’t let your ego get bruised if I don’t come as soon as you touch me – I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.’

Gustave grinned, wickedly.

‘And don’t let yours be bruised if you _do_ , my dear’ he purred, his hands sliding down to Dmitri’s hips. ‘Could you climb off me for a moment? As much as I like having such a tall, handsome man on top of me, I won’t be able to reach anything if we stay like this.’

Dmitri did as Gustave asked, climbing off the man and sitting on the edge of the couch. This was okay, he thought; it wasn’t like he’d never had someone go down on him before. In fact, it was something he very much enjoyed, so why should it matter that Gustave would be the one to do it this time? It wasn’t as though his mouth would feel any different from a woman’s, and his dick didn’t presently seem to care that Gustave was male anyway. So long as he was the one receiving, he was, technically, winning. This wasn’t _necessarily_ queer, not so long as he kept his eyes closed.

He was doing a pretty lousy job of that.

Gustave down on his knees was such a bizarre sight that he couldn’t help but stare. That son of a bitch stroked Dmitri’s thighs, seeming to derive great pleasure from prolonging this affair for as long as possible. However, when it came to actually getting Dmitri’s dick out, he was startlingly quick, pulling off the whole manoeuvre one-handed in a matter of seconds. Clearly, he’d done this _far_ too many times, but Dmitri was in no position to complain.

He didn’t mean to gasp like that when Gustave’s warm hand started to stroke him, but he hadn’t been prepared. And oh _fuck,_ Gustave was looking at him, and what was the proper code of conduct here? Was he meant to make polite conversation with a man who was jerking him off?

‘ _Very_ impressive, Dmitri,’ said Gustave, with a gleam in his eyes. ‘I must admit, I did wonder if you were compensating for something with all of your braggadocio, but it _definitely_ isn’t this, good god.’

A compliment _and_ a snide remark, all at once – Dmitri was far too turned on to figure out how he felt about that. Instead, he let his head rest against the back of the couch as Gustave’s tongue started lapping at him. He’d failed in his attempts to keep his eyes closed, but he _could_ at least try not to make any noise – men were meant to stay quiet for the most part, weren’t they? But _god_ , Gustave was making that difficult; guided by those few little gasps that Dmitri hadn’t been able to contain, he’d managed to find a particularly sensitive spot, and was teasing it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.

‘Mmm, fuck…’ Dmitri sighed, his hips unconsciously rolling forward a little.

Gustave clearly got the hint, because he proceeded to take all of Dmitri’s dick into his mouth at once, with apparent ease.

Dmitri groaned, loudly - he couldn’t help it; he hadn’t been expecting that, not this quickly. Gustave’s mouth was so hot, and he’d started to add some suction, and all the while that clever tongue was still at work. All right, Gustave hadn’t been bragging – he really _was_ fucking amazing at this, and evidently that mouth was good for more than just spouting poetry. And just how did the man manage to look so fucking dignified like this? He looked downright peaceful - certainly not like someone who was being degraded.

And, for that matter, how did he get his hair like that? It looked perfect - _too_ perfect, Dmitri thought, and reached down to run his fingers through it. Gustave moaned at his touch and, goddamn, those vibrations felt fucking fantastic. He knew wasn’t going to last much longer like this, but he still tried his hardest not to finish too soon (he didn’t want Gustave to think he had _no_ stamina whatsoever, after all - he could only imagine how smug the bastard would be about that).

However, it soon became clear that he wasn’t the only one who was enjoying this; whilst one of Gustave’s hands still rested on his thigh, Gustave was quite obviously using the other to stroke himself. Under normal circumstances, Dmitri supposed that might have bothered him, but in the moment he found it strangely complimentary. Gustave’s enthusiasm was… well, there was no other word for it, it was hot.

‘Yeah,’ he murmured, ‘you fucking like that, don’t you? I think I like you like this too, you know? You know how fucking long it’s been since someone’s done this for me? _God_ , just keep going…’

His mouth seemed to be saying whatever it wanted, without consulting his brain first – this was what this ridiculous man was doing to him. Still, it was okay; he could enjoy this, he _was_ enjoying this, and he let himself relax as he felt his climax gradually creeping up on him.

When he _did_ come, it almost caught him by surprise. One hand gripped at Gustave’s hair, the other’s fingers digging into the arm of the couch, and goddamn, that was _fantastic_ , that was just fucking _brilliant_. Gustave continued to swallow around him with no hesitation – he was so often preoccupied with tidiness that he probably wanted to make sure there wasn’t any mess to clean up, Dmitri mused.

Dmitri assumed Gustave must have found his release as well; he shivered and made a small, satisfied noise, which Dmitri was shocked to find he actually enjoyed hearing. And as for Gustave’s face when he finally pulled away… well, fuck. How could he _not_ enjoy seeing him like that – all flushed and breathless, with those big pretty eyes twinkling? Dmitri knew he was in trouble.

‘I usually last longer than that’ he said. ‘Like I said, it’s been a while.’

Gustave smiled.

‘Well, I’ll take that as a compliment, darling. Feeling better now?’

Dmitri realised he was still stroking Gustave’s hair, absent-mindedly. He also realised he didn’t particularly want to stop doing that; he quite liked the way Gustave leaned into his touch. God, he was fucking needy, wasn’t he? Vain old son of a bitch. He was gorgeous. _Fuck_ him.

‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘sure. You were good. _And_ I finally got you to shut up for once.’

Gustave laughed, and deftly zipped up and refastened his trousers. Dmitri re-adjusted himself and pulled his robe closed, and they were both back to normal, relatively speaking.

‘Quite a pleasant way to be shut up, I must say’ Gustave remarked, climbing to his feet.

‘Thanks’ said Dmitri. What the fuck else was he meant to say? Were you _meant_ to thank someone for sucking you off?

‘The pleasure was mine,’ said Gustave, ‘I’m always happy to do favours for my friends.’

 _Favours_? That was a hell of a way to describe what they’d just done. Still, in a way, it was reassuring; this didn’t have to mean anything. Gustave had done this for a lot of people, so it wasn’t as though Dmitri had to worry about love or anything difficult like that.

‘Friends?’ he asked. ‘You’d call me a friend now?’

Gustave’s expression was softer than Dmitri had ever seen it.

‘Well, yes,’ he said, ‘yes, I’d say we’ve developed an understanding. Besides, doesn’t being friends feel so much better than being enemies?’

 _Well_. Gustave’s idea of “ _being friends”_ certainly felt pretty damn good.

‘It does,’ Dmitri admitted. ‘I mean, most people settle for getting drinks together, but I think I like your way as well.’

With that, he rose to his feet and pulled Gustave in for another kiss, not caring where the other man’s mouth had just been. He’d told himself this would only be a one-time affair, but who was he fucking kidding? He _knew_ he’d be back for more of this, and the thought of that both thrilled and terrified him.

‘It’s late’ he said, ‘I’d better go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, though.’

‘Goodnight, Dmitri’ said Gustave, fondly.

‘Goodnight, Concierge.’

As he left the bedroom, Dmitri wondered how many times he would go back there to reap the benefits of Gustave’s friendship. He knew it would involve swallowing a lot of pride, but if he played it right he could potentially turn this into – to use Gustave’s parlance - something lovely.

God. He was so _fucked_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- There's no way Dmitri doesn't have a ton of enemies. You think a guy like that didn't do business with all kinds of shady people? Not likely.  
> \- Apparently, Adrien Brody's actually broken his nose at least three times, so I figured Dmitri would have too (although in Dmitri's case, this would be less because of accidents, and more because most people who meet him probably want to punch him in the face).  
> \- Gustave was canonically able to beat the shit out of Pinky, so I like to think he's surprisingly good in a fight when he has to be.  
> \- This chapter's poem (and one of my favourites): 'Amor Mundi' by Christina Rossetti.  
> \- We get some (rather awkward) smut in this one, and we're going to get a lot more of that in the next couple of chapters (because they're friends now - and what do we know about Gustave? He goes to bed with all his friends).


	10. Early Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dmitri is Gustave's friend, and Gustave treats his friends well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the world's going mad right now, here's a long chapter of Gustave/Dmitri smut for all you readers. Note the change in rating - some very E-Rated stuff in this chapter, but it's all very sweet and consensual.

Over the next couple of weeks, these little trysts became more and more frequent, and Gustave couldn’t have been happier.

Yes, it was awkward to begin with, but that was to be expected. Dmitri clearly hadn’t experienced intimacy with another man before, and Gustave had no desire to rush him into anything. At any rate, aspects of this were foreign to _him_ as well; he hadn’t had a partner younger than himself in many years, so he wasn’t well accustomed to being the older man. Granted, at nearly forty, Dmitri was hardly some wide-eyed naïf, but he was still far less confident in expressing his needs than Gustave’s usual lovers.

Still, it wasn’t _too_ hard to figure out what Dmitri liked. He was by no means quiet when receiving pleasure – a fact which pleased Gustave greatly, as it made his weak spots much easier to ascertain. Aside from that, it was just plain arousing. When it came to his sexuality, Gustave didn’t particularly like to put himself into boxes; he could be dominant, if it were required of him, and he enjoyed being submissive, but above all he loved to look after people, and loved to know he was doing a good job of it. He loved the depth of Dmitri’s voice when he groaned and cursed and ordered him around, and the way those slender fingers ran through his hair.

Thus far, their relations weren’t quite as intimate as they could have been, but he could hardly complain. They remained mostly clothed, but he had to admit that there was something thrilling about the spontaneity of it all. Besides, he’d become very well-acquainted with a certain part of Dmitri’s anatomy, and that was more than enough to satisfy him. Gustave didn’t normally pay much mind to his partners’ size, as he’d found that it generally didn’t correspond to their skill in the bedroom, but he had to admit… Dmitri had been blessed.

What they shared was hardly the height of romance, but it was something. It made both of them happy, and wasn’t that all that mattered? Gustave knew that _he_ enjoyed it, and an orgasm seemed to greatly improve Dmitri’s mood, so he saw no good reason for them to stop.

As he knelt down to take Dmitri into his mouth yet again, his only regret was having taken so long to confess his attraction. But perhaps now was simply the right time for both of them – one couldn’t rush these things, after all. At any rate, there was still plenty of time to figure things out. There was so much of his new partner he had yet to explore… Gustave shivered with excitement at the thought.

What a beneficial friendship _this_ was turning out to be.

**********

For once, it wasn’t a purely impulsive decision; Dmitri had been thinking about this for weeks, and he knew what he needed tonight. It had taken a lot of careful consideration on his part; he still wasn’t sure what any of this meant about his sexuality, but had decided that he’d really quite like to be fucked by Gustave, if only to see what all the fuss was about – and why _not_ tonight? He was fresh out of the shower, in his dressing gown, as clean as could be and as relaxed as he was likely to get. Mustering up all of his confidence, he knocked on Gustave’s bedroom door, practicing his nonchalant face as he waited for a response.

‘Come in!’ called Gustave; Dmitri took a deep breath and stepped inside. He couldn’t believe he was back here again, this was fucking ridiculous.

‘Dmitri,’ said Gustave, with a smile. ‘Good evening. Do you need something?’

 _You_ , Dmitri thought, but he couldn’t say that – he didn’t want to seem _that_ fucking desperate, after all. The longer Gustave stared at him, the more self-conscious he felt about his nakedness under his robe – was it obvious? Was he already coming on too strong?

‘I, uh…’ _Excellent start there, you asshole_ , he thought to himself, ‘I can’t get to sleep. So, I thought you might... like some company, or something like that, I don’t fucking know.’ _Pathetic,_ he thought – _“can’t get to sleep” – what are you, a fucking child?_

‘That was nice of you,’ said Gustave. ‘Do you mean to say you’re actually starting to consider my feelings?’

Dmitri shrugged. Wait, _shit_ – _was_ he? No, nothing like that; he was here for a quick fuck, that was all. There was _nothing_ romantic about this debauchery he was about to take part in, and he’d only hurt himself more if he pretended there was. 

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself,’ he said, ‘It’s just… well, like you've said, it’s a fucking big house. A man can start to feel isolated around here, you know? Gets real cold at night – have you noticed that? It seems pretty warm in here, so maybe it’s just my room that’s cold. I don’t fucking know.’

Oh _god_ , he was rambling. He wasn’t nervous – there was nothing intimidating about the old fruit, after all – but at the same time he was trying desperately to avoid the inevitable confession of what he actually wanted.

‘It does get cold sometimes,’ Gustave agreed, ‘even in the summer. I suppose that’s what one sacrifices to live in such an old place.’

He stood up from his desk, and that look in his eyes was so kind and reassuring that Dmitri felt comfortable enough to take a few more steps towards him, and oh _god_ this was a bad idea, wasn’t it? He _did_ want this - he’d thought about it enough to be sure of that - but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy. Would he even enjoy it?

‘Would you like me to help you relax?’ Gustave asked, slyly. ‘A little kiss goodnight, perhaps? Maybe a little more?’

Dmitri knew that if he didn’t take this chance to initiate things then it would probably never happen.

‘That could be just fine’ he said, and quickly leaned in to give Gustave a kiss as soon as the words had left his mouth.

Unfortunately, in his eagerness, he’d forgotten to do something so fucking simple as tilting his head the right way, so it was their noses rather than their lips which crashed together.

‘ _Shit_!’ he hissed, his eyes watering from the shock. ‘I really fucked that up, sorry.’

To his surprise, Gustave laughed jovially, and then his warm hands were cupping Dmitri’s face, thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones, and _god_ , Dmitri could have melted from that alone. This had _definitely_ been a good idea.

‘That’s all right, darling,’ he said, ‘If you’d like, I can give you plenty of opportunities to get it right.’

 _Goddamn that smooth bastard,_ thought Dmitri as Gustave kissed him – properly this time. It was quite reserved, save for a slight brush of the tongue over Dmitri’s lower lip, which promised more if he wanted it.

‘Goddamn…’ Dmitri breathed as Gustave pulled away. ‘Go on then, go ahead.’

‘You’re sure?’ Gustave asked, and he ran his fingers down Dmitri’s neck, bringing his hands to rest on his bony shoulders, where Dmitri could feel their warmth through the thin silk of his robe. Was he _sure?_ Fuck it, he was _more_ than just “ _sure_ ” – he wanted those hands all over him right fucking _now_.

‘Of course I’m fucking sure,’ he said, ‘you think I’d be here if I didn’t want to do this? Come here, Concierge.’

There was a swift but gentle flurry of movement, which ended with Dmitri’s arms around Gustave’s waist and the concierge’s tongue slipping into his mouth. Dmitri responded, kissing him back hungrily as Gustave’s fingers ran through his hair. He realised he had no idea what to do with his own hands – _damn it,_ what should he do? He’d been thinking about this for so long, but now that Gustave was right _there_ in his arms, he was totally overwhelmed. He hadn’t expected it to affect him so much, but Gustave’s steady hands and soft, _soft_ mouth were rapidly draining away what little remained of his common sense. 

 _Ugh_. Fucking _ridiculous_! He wasn’t some teenager getting kissed for the first time – this wasn’t even his first time kissing Gustave, for fuck’s sake, and he’d had his dick in the man’s mouth at least a dozen times. He wasn’t about to be passive here. Although, now that he thought about it, submitting a little sounded strangely appealing. It was safe for him to let his guard down around Gustave, he reasoned; there was nothing to fear from him.

This was _nice_ , sure, but it wasn’t quite enough – but, at the same time, he wasn’t sure how to escalate things. _Subtlety, Dmitri_ , he thought, _don’t act desperate_.

He very un-subtly shrugged his robe off one of his shoulders, and was surprised by how quickly Gustave took the hint, his mouth descending on the newly-exposed skin right away. This was okay. It was safe to reveal his other shoulder, he thought, then sighed as Gustave started kissing that too. Oh, this was bullshit. Perhaps, he thought, vulnerability would be easier to deal with if it came all at once.

Yes, that sounded okay. As Gustave was ravishing him, Dmitri quickly untied the belt of his robe and let it fall to the floor.

It was Gustave’s turn to be surprised now. He looked so incredibly endearing when he was taken aback like this - he was blushing, for fuck’s sake! It wasn’t like he’d never seen a naked man before! He looked Dmitri up and down, not making the least attempt to hide it, and _fuck_ , there was that feeling of insecurity. Dmitri knew he didn’t have a _bad_ body, per se, but he had trouble keeping any weight on his lanky frame, and he was terribly pale, and –

‘My god…’ said Gustave, ‘just _look_ at you. Magnificent. I don’t know why you keep all of this so hidden away! May I?’ He reached a hand out, but stopped just before making contact, clearly unsure of what Dmitri wanted.

‘Sure,’ said Dmitri, ‘go on.’

He shivered as Gustave’s hand stroked his shoulder, tentatively. The escalation of touching was gradual but, before he knew it, both of Gustave’s hands were all over him, just as he’d wanted. They brushed over his chest, and across his back, and gently down his ribs – _fuck_ , he was sensitive there. He couldn’t stifle a laugh, and that was embarrassing, god-fucking-damn it, you weren’t meant to _laugh_ during this –

\- And Gustave was smiling at him, his face full of awe. He laughed, softly, and Dmitri found himself echoing it - partly due to nerves, and partly from the relief that stemmed from the realisation that, god _damn_ , maybe he was allowed to enjoy this after all.

They came together again, both needy and wanting, both feeling a little more comfortable now that the tension had been broken.

‘This isn’t fair,’ said Dmitri, between kisses.

‘Oh?’ A pause from Gustave, giving both of them time to catch their breath. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re wearing too much,’ Dmitri protested, undoing Gustave’s tie and tossing it aside. ‘I’m all fucking… _exposed_ , and you’re still wearing all… _this_ shit!’

 ‘Oh, is that all?’ said Gustave, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it onto a nearby chair. ‘Well, we can solve that quite easily, can’t we?’

There was little sensuality to it; Gustave set about removing his clothes with an efficiency that Dmitri found refreshing. He wasn’t here for a striptease, and Gustave was clearly just as eager to escalate things. It _would_ be really fucking queer to stare at another man’s body, thought Dmitri, but then what they were doing already _was_ , so he supposed it wouldn’t hurt him to have a look.

Dmitri was so used to seeing the older man all wrapped up in perfectly-tailored suits that seeing him naked felt strange – he looked much more vulnerable like this, though Dmitri supposed everyone did. But still, from a purely objective point of view, Gustave looked _good_. His chest and arms looked strong and welcoming, and his waist was slim – if not quite as defined as Dmitri’s own – and Dmitri didn’t quite have the nerve look at anything below that, but he definitely _felt_ Gustave’s cock pressing against him as they embraced again.

That feeling of skin against skin was wonderful, and he’d gone far too long without it. He _certainly_ couldn’t go the route of pretending he was with a woman this time, though; Gustave’s body was firm and well-muscled and unmistakeably male, so either they would have to stop right now (which Dmitri definitely didn’t want), or he would have an awful lot of questions to ask himself later.

But oh, fuck, he cared so little about any of that right now. Their hips bumped together a little awkwardly – neither of them had figured out a rhythm just yet, but it still felt good, and Dmitri knew that he needed to get as close to this man as possible.

‘Tell me what you need, darling,’ Gustave murmured, pressing their foreheads together. ‘Anything you want, Dmitri. Anything you want.’

‘Fuck me’ said Dmitri. There was no point in trying to skirt around it anymore; when was he going to be in this situation again?

‘You’re sure?’ said Gustave, pulling back a little, looking concerned. ‘You… you don’t _have_ to do this to stay here, Dmitri, I don’t want you thinking that. That’s not what this is.’

 _Ever the fucking gentleman_ , thought Dmitri.

‘No,’ he agreed, ‘it’s not. But I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.’

‘And you _do_ want to be?’ Gustave asked.

‘Concierge,’ said Dmitri, ‘I’m ass-naked in front of you and you’re really asking if I want to fuck? Come on.’

‘Of course, my apologies,’ said Gustave, with a smile, ‘one has to be sure of these things. Now…bed?’ he nodded towards it.

‘Fuck, _yes_ ,’ Dmitri agreed.

‘Very good,’ said Gustave, loosening his grip on Dmitri’s waist. ‘Now, lie down on your back for me, would you?’

He didn’t know _why_ he was letting Gustave order him around – he’d never thought himself the submissive type – but he followed his advice and lay back against the pillows. Gustave _was_ , after all, far more experienced in these matters, so he probably knew better than most how to make a man feel good.

Gustave climbed on top of him, and the kissing and caressing resumed, somehow even better now that they were both horizontal. It was hot, of course, but it was also strangely comforting; Dmitri couldn’t recall if he’d ever been held like this before. None of the women he’d bedded had ever pinned him down like this, that was for sure, and even Jopling's occasional embraces now seemed rather cold in comparison. Gustave was _warm_ , so warm, and Dmitri groaned as their legs entangled and their hips ground together.

‘You’re so lovely,’ Gustave sighed. ‘I must confess, I never thought I’d have you like this.’

‘ _Hm_ …’ Dmitri made a noise as Gustave’s mouth pressed against his neck, ‘so, you’ve thought about it?’

‘Well,’ said Gustave, ‘one _thinks_ about all sorts of things.’

‘And yet,’ said Dmitri, ‘I still had to make the – _fuck!_ ’ he gasped as Gustave’s hand closed around his dick and started to stroke him, slowly. Goddamn that sly bastard; he hadn’t been expecting that!

‘Still had to make the…the first move…’ he continued, his voice faltering.

‘I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,’ Gustave explained, looking awfully innocent for someone who was making Dmitri feel such _things_. ‘I think you’ve spent a long time feeling controlled, but this is on _your_ terms, Dmitri.’

He gave Dmitri a squeeze with his hand, for emphasis.

‘Wait, wait,’ said Dmitri, ‘enough, that’s enough.’

Immediately, Gustave took his hand away.

‘Sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘Too much?’

‘Just don’t want to come right away,’ Dmitri explained. ‘We should do this properly. I know it’s going to hurt, so just fuck me and get it over with, I can take it.’

He closed his eyes and braced himself for what he was sure would be an unpleasant experience, but one that he wanted nonetheless. His pain tolerance wasn’t too bad, so this would be nothing he couldn’t handle – it would be _mortifying_ , of course, but it wouldn’t kill him.

‘Dmitri,’ Gustave’s voice was kind – _why_ did he have to be so fucking _nice_ about this? It only made things harder. ‘I’m not going to hurt you; that wouldn’t be pleasurable for either of us. Be patient for me – at least let me prepare you first.’

God, this was humiliating.

‘I don’t need any of that,’ Dmitri protested, ‘I’m not fucking made of glass, okay? You couldn’t hurt me.’

‘Trust me, Dmitri,’ Gustave said, ‘you _do_ need it. Be a dear and relax for me; you’ll probably find this quite enjoyable.’

 _Fuck_. Why were Gustave’s gentle suggestions such a turn-on? As he leant back against the pillows, Dmitri felt as though all of the blood in his body was rushing straight to his face and dick in equal measure. Gustave pulled away from him, and rummaged around in the bedside table. Dmitri’s mind was racing; _god_ , what kind of weird, perverted acts did the man have in mind?

Smiling, Gustave retrieved a small jar of… something, and set about kissing Dmitri yet again.

‘What’s that?’ Dmitri asked. ‘What are you going to do with that?’

‘Nothing to worry about,’ Gustave assured him, ‘just the opposite, in fact – it will make all of this much easier for us. Are you ready to start?’

Well, there was no time like the present, and Dmitri was as ready as he would ever be.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Go on – do… whatever the fuck you’re going to do.’

‘As you wish’ said Gustave, and Dmitri watched as he dipped a finger into the jar, generously coating it with the substance, making it slick. Fuck, that was going inside him, wasn’t it? God, he _really_ didn’t want to look at Gustave during this – he let his head fall to the side, and closed his eyes.

‘It’s all right,’ said Gustave, and Dmitri felt his touch trailing up the inside of his thigh, teasingly. ‘If you don’t like it, just say the word and I’ll stop.’

Dmitri tensed up automatically as Gustave’s finger rubbed at his entrance – he couldn’t even do _this_ quickly, damn him. Still, that didn’t feel _bad_ , exactly, just really fucking strange. In fact, embarrassing as it was, it felt… kind of _nice_ , actually, and he began to relax as Gustave massaged him in little circles. Gradually – ever so gradually – the finger pushed into him, little by little, greatly aided by the excessive lubrication.

Dmitri shuddered, and arched his back, totally involuntarily. Again, that wasn’t _bad_ – slightly uncomfortable, and strangely intrusive, but not painful. This, at least, he could definitely handle.

‘There,’ Gustave sighed, and gently caressed him from the inside. ‘Good boy, Dmitri… that’s okay, isn’t it?’

Dmitri nodded. “ _Good boy_ ”? What the fuck was _that_? And why did it hearing it force a small moan from the back of his throat?

‘It’s… _fine_ , I guess,’ he said, still not wanting to seem _too_ into this. ‘I mean, I’m not seeing what the big deal is, but – _ohh, fuck!_ Do that again!’

Gustave stroked him at a different angle, and rubbed against… _something_ , some bundle of nerves, which turned his whole body wonderfully pliant and sensitive. The sensation was unfamiliar, but it felt so fucking satisfying that most of that discomfort was quickly forgotten. He didn’t mean to writhe about and moan like some fucking whore, he _really_ hadn’t intended to, but evidently this was what his body wanted to do, and his mind was powerless to stop it.

‘Now, how does that feel?’ Gustave asked – even though he knew goddamn well how it felt, thought Dmitri. ‘You like that, don’t you, darling?’

His finger pressed on that sweet spot, harder than before.

‘Of f-fucking _course_ I do!’ Dmitri tried to say that with some authority, but it came out as more of a whimper. ‘You _know_ I do. Fuck you. What are you – _o-oh! -_ _doing_ to me? Do more of it – go faster.’

Gustave feigned a look of sadness, and the son of a bitch actually _slowed_ his movements.

‘Now, now, Dmitri…’ he said. ‘Let’s hear some manners. Never underestimate the importance of proper etiquette!’

Dmitri groaned and hissed through clenched teeth. This was a game now, was it?

‘Oh, for fuc-‘ he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. ‘…Please?’ he asked, ‘Gustave? Go faster, please.’

Gustave complied and, god _damn_ , that was perfect. If being polite _always_ felt this good, thought Dmitri, he might genuinely consider being less of a bastard. The more Gustave touched him there, the better it felt, and soon Dmitri’s core was pulsing, and he was harder than he’d ever been, and he desperately wanted to touch himself but also wanted to prolong this for as long as possible, and _fuck_ , Gustave was doing all of this with one fucking _finger_! What the fuck, and _how_ the fuck?

‘Nice and relaxed now, aren’t you?’ said Gustave, and Dmitri noticed the sudden roughness in his voice. ‘You’re doing _so_ well, love. Do you want more?’

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ Dmitri gasped, thrusting his hips upwards at the mere promise of more. ‘God, yeah, go on, fuck me.’ He couldn’t believe he’d been reduced to begging, Jesus fucking Christ.

‘Mmm…’ Gustave leaned in closer to him, and Dmitri buried his face into the man’s shoulder, ‘not quite yet. You’ve still got a way to go…’

Dmitri felt a second finger pressing into him, and was shocked by how easily his body accepted it this time. He tensed his muscles around it, testing this new sensation, and tried unsuccessfully to muffle his moan against Gustave’s neck as he felt himself being gently stretched open.

‘So eager,’ Gustave remarked. ‘Beautiful. Don’t hold anything back, darling, let me hear you.’

They spent a long while like that, during which Dmitri desperately wanted more, but the feeling of Gustave’s fingers stroking him, fucking into him, making that little scissoring motion - that was also sensational, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to end. Gustave was kissing his neck, and he felt as though he’d been on the brink of orgasm for fucking _hours_ , and it was amazing and unbearable all at once.

If he wanted to escalate things, he realised, he would have to take matters into his own hands, quite literally; he reached down and grabbed Gustave’s cock, feeling more than a little smug when the man let out a startled cry.

‘God, Dmitri!’ he groaned. ‘Do you want me inside you now? Do you feel ready for that?’

Well, thank god _he’d_ been the one to say it, thought Dmitri. Gustave felt quite well-endowed under his hand, but not ridiculously so (which Dmitri had admittedly assumed, given the concierge’s popularity with women, but now he realised that probably had more to do with the man’s devilish skills). He could probably manage to take that, he thought, though the idea of actually being _fucked_ still sent a chill through him.

‘I’m ready,’ he said, ‘now hurry up and fuck me, please.’

‘So polite,’ Gustave praised him, pressing a kiss into his shoulder. ‘I suppose I’ll have to, since you asked so nicely.’

He shuddered as Gustave withdrew his fingers – he felt rather empty without them inside him, but knew they’d soon be replaced with something far more substantial. Gustave sat up, and placed his hands on Dmitri’s slim hips.

‘Lift your hips up for me, darling,’ he ordered, and Dmitri did. ‘That’s a good boy.’ He grabbed a pillow that lay beside Dmitri, and placed it under his hips – Dmitri was suddenly aware that he probably looked quite ridiculous like this.

‘What’s that for?’ he asked. ‘You’re really going to fuck me so hard that I need a cushion?’

‘No, Dmitri,’ Gustave laughed, ‘nothing like that. This will just be a more pleasant angle for you, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’ All right, now he felt faintly ridiculous _and_ turned on.

He watched intently as Gustave slicked himself up, stroking himself a little more than was strictly necessary. Then, Gustave was kissing him again, and the tip of his cock was right _there_ , almost pushing inside. He had to hand it to Gustave – the man’s self-control was fucking impressive.

‘Take a deep breath,’ said Gustave, and Dmitri did. ‘Good, good. Now, let it out, do it slowly.’

Dmitri exhaled, which quickly turned into a loud groan as Gustave slowly pushed into him; any delusions of subtlety had been abandoned a long time ago. He was grateful that Gustave had taken such care to prepare him beforehand, because _fuck_ , that felt like a lot. It still wasn’t what he’d call painful, but being stretched open like that wasn’t exactly comfortable. He threw his head back, and tried to relax as best he could.

‘All right, darling?’ Gustave asked, softly.

‘Yes,’ Dmitri hissed, ‘just get on with it. Move. Please.’

His thrusts were mercifully shallow and gentle; he clearly wanted to give Dmitri time to adjust, and _god_ , what had he done to deserve this sort of treatment? After all they’d been through, Dmitri was surprised the man didn’t want to pin him down and fuck him hard, but he was glad this wasn’t the case.

‘Oh, _god_ , Dmitri,’ Gustave sighed, sounding thoroughly pleased. ‘You’re so tight, darling. In fact, I – _oh_ – I’d say you’re fucking _incredible_. Relax now, love. It’s okay; I’ve got you.’

 _“Relax”?_ thought Dmitri – that was easy for Gustave to say; _he_ wasn’t the one with someone’s dick in him! But he wanted to enjoy this, and he wanted to do as Gustave asked – he didn’t know _why_ that was, but he was in no state to analyse it now. He focused on his breathing, and on Gustave’s soft lips, and, gradually, his muscles became lax, and Gustave’s thrusts felt good, much better. Occasionally, his cock would brush against that one nice spot, which was maddening, and not quite enough.

‘That’s it,’ said Gustave, dragging out the vowel in the first word, ‘that’s better, isn’t it? Now, if you can, why don’t you try wrapping your legs around my waist?’

All of Gustave’s suggestions so far had only led to more pleasure, so Dmitri thought that sounded like an excellent idea, and brought his long, slender legs up around the man’s waist. The effect was immediate, and they both moaned as the angle of penetration changed. Now, that _really_ hit the spot; as Gustave started to move again, it felt so good that Dmitri could almost have fucking cried.

‘Oh god,’ his mouth was working on its own, spitting out sentence fragments. ‘Right there, just like that – _yes –_ fuck!’

Eventually, they settled on a rhythm – it was still quite slow, but Dmitri could feel Gustave’s strength in every movement of his hips, and all he could do was retaliate. His legs squeezed around Gustave’s waist, encouraging him, and he pushed back against him, wantonly. It was wonderful, but now it was almost _too_ much; his breath started to come in gasps and sobs, and he felt unbearably warm. Yes, _too_ good. He felt his heart could give out from this at any moment, but that wouldn’t be a bad way to die…

He _had_ thought he didn’t want to look at Gustave, but this was all so intimate that it felt only right to. He looked gorgeous like this, Dmitri realised; his face was flushed, and his hair was dishevelled, and his almost pained expression made it clear that he, too, was having an excellent time of this.

‘What a vision of beauty,’ Gustave sighed (under normal circumstances, Dmitri would have told him to stop with the poetic bullshit, but he couldn’t bring himself to care). ‘God, I… Dmitri, I hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am.’

‘I…’ his response filtered through the thick layer of pleasure clouding his brain. ‘Yeah, I think I must be.’

‘Good,’ said Gustave, his thrusts growing faster. ‘You deserve this, Dima. You’ve been so good for me.’

 _Good_. No-one had ever called him good before, and Gustave’s praise wrecked whatever might have remained of his self-control. All of this was obscene, he was sure of it, but could something that felt like _this_ really be all that bad? A little faster now; Dmitri felt the vibrations against his lips as Gustave moaned into his mouth, and he dug his fingers into Gustave’s back, trying to get even closer to him, somehow. Nothing else in the world mattered to him at that moment; his worries, his insecurities - all of those had been forgotten, replaced by the man in his arms.

As incredible as it all was, it still wasn’t quite enough to push him over the edge, and his muscles started to twitch in a desperate attempt to release some tension. He didn’t know _why_ he hadn’t come already – he’d never felt anything this good, after all. It was a different kind of stimulation, he supposed; perhaps he just wasn’t used to it yet.

Gustave could probably get off just from being fucked, he mused, and made a mental note to test this theory one day.

They were starting to lose their rhythm now, as Gustave’s thrusts became more erratic. He would find the rhythm again, temporarily, only to lose control again moments later. The thought that _he_ was provoking this kind of reaction from the man… that _did_ something to Dmitri. Monsieur Gustave H. wasn’t looking quite so calm and composed _now_ , was he?

‘Are you close?’ Gustave asked, breathlessly. ‘Don’t mean to rush you, but… _god_ , Dmitri, I’m not sure I can last much longer like this, and I’d quite like you to come first.’

Now that he thought about it, Dmitri realised they actually _had_ been doing this for quite a long time; he’d been so caught up in his own pleasure that he’d totally lost track of time, and hadn’t given much consideration towards Gustave’s own stamina.

‘I’m…I’m nearly there, yeah,’ he choked out. ‘I can’t quite… I mean – Gustave – _please_ \- I can’t seem to-‘

‘That’s perfectly fine,’ said Gustave, ‘Perfectly fine. You might just need a bit of a helping hand.’

Dmitri was in such a state that he completely missed the innuendo; as a result, Gustave’s hand on his dick came as a total surprise. There was a loud exclamation which may have come from him, he wasn’t sure – he’d been yearning to be touched ever since Gustave started fucking him, and now he was finally getting what he wanted, and nothing had _ever_ felt so gratifying.

He’d never felt so much all at once. There was Gustave sliding in and out of him, and that hand pumping his cock, and those lips against his own, and it all blended together and added to that glorious tension building inside him – familiar in sensation, but not in intensity.

‘Let yourself feel it,’ said Gustave, teasing the tip of Dmitri’s erection with his thumb, drawing a long whine from him. ‘Can you let go for me, Dmitri? You’ve been so good; you deserve to _feel_ good. Such a good boy…’

That was all it took. He’d always thought that “seeing stars” was just a figure of speech, but little fragments of light actually _did_ burst across his vision as he finally found his release. What the fuck had Gustave done to him? He felt his climax in every little fibre of his body, and he spasmed against Gustave, uncontrollably, his muscles clenching around the cock which continued to move inside him, further prolonging his pleasure. Even once his initial climax seemed to have finished, he continued to shudder all over as Gustave thrust into him.

He rode these wonderful after-shocks for a while, until Gustave finally tensed up and shivered in his arms.

‘ _Dmitri_ ’ he moaned, and it was such a sweet sound that Dmitri felt he could almost have come again just from hearing it.

Both of them collapsed; Dmitri onto the bed, and Gustave onto Dmitri. They lay there for a while, panting to regain their breath, and simply basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Oh, how he’d always hated the term, but he couldn’t deny that that was, indeed, what they had just done - it had been nothing so impersonal as just “fucking”. He couldn’t think too hard about it though, not right now; everything was still enjoyably hazy, and he felt like he’d just sprinted a mile.

Eventually, Gustave moved; he climbed off Dmitri and kissed him, reassuringly.

‘I’ll be right back, darling,’ he said, ‘stay right there.’

He felt a pang of disappointment as Gustave climbed off him and headed for the bathroom. Now that they’d finished, the realisation of what they’d just done dawned on him, but… _damn_ , that afterglow was something. He was exhausted; it was like all the energy had been fucked out of him. For now, at least, he just wanted to rest for a while.

With his eyes closed, he felt the mattress next to him sink down as Gustave returned. He was surprised when he felt something damp against his stomach; when he opened his eyes, he saw that Gustave had set about cleaning him up with a flannel. Of fucking _course_ he cared about cleaning things up, the fastidious son of a bitch…

It was actually a very sweet gesture.

‘There you go,’ said Gustave, giving Dmitri a quick peck on the forehead, ‘nice and clean.’

‘Hm’ Dmitri mumbled. He wasn’t confident in his mouth’s ability to form complete sentences.

‘Okay?’ Gustave asked. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘Don’t think so,’ said Dmitri. ‘Should I… leave, now?’

That was how most of his previous encounters had ended, after all; you got off, then you left soon after, right? Wasn’t that how this was done?

‘You don’t _have_ to,’ said Gustave, ‘if you’d rather stay here for a while, I’ll accommodate you happily. This _is_ a big bed. Plenty of room for two.’

Dmitri thought about it. He _was_ awfully tired, and it was warm here; he didn’t much feel like putting his robe back on and walking back to his own room. He wasn’t even sure if he _could_ – his legs felt quite weak, and collapsing on the floor didn’t sound like a good way to end the night.

‘Sure,’ he said, after much deliberation, ‘I’ll stay.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Gustave, climbing under the covers with him. ‘Shared bodily warmth truly can’t be beaten, can it? Come here.’

Gustave’s lips were against his again, and he stroked Dmitri’s bare skin – it was a very soft touch this time, not at all insistent. What was this? Hadn’t they finished? Dmitri wasn’t sure if he could handle a second round.

‘Jesus…’ he said, ‘are you trying to fuck me again?’

Apparently, Gustave found this incredibly amusing.

‘Oh, darling, you needn’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I’m _old_. I’m quite easily satisfied these days.’

Okay, so now they were cuddling. Really? How had he ended up like this? He rested his head on Gustave’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, and those strong arms were wrapped around him, and one of those warm hands was stroking his back. Well, that was… relaxing, for sure. He hadn’t been held like this since… well, he had _never_ been held like this.

‘Shall I turn the light off?’ Gustave asked.

‘Mm. Sure.’

As the darkness surrounded them, it somehow felt safer to show his affection. It was mostly biological, he knew that; he’d just come harder than he’d ever come in his whole life, so of course he needed something to hold on to – his body was probably still in shock. He huddled closer to Gustave, hoping he wasn’t being too obvious about it.

‘ _I lov’d thee from the earliest dawn,’_ said Gustave.

‘ _When first I saw thy beauty’s ray,_

_And will, until life’s eve comes on,_

_And beauty’s blossom fades away;_

_And when all things…’_

For once, Dmitri couldn’t bring himself to interrupt Gustave. Instead, he simply relaxed and let his friend’s words lull him to sleep. He knew he would have a lot to consider the next morning, but right now, all was peaceful.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt quite so content.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- No, Dmitri, you CAN'T just jump right into your first time with no preparation, you Tall Goth Dumbass.  
> \- Never thought I'd be writing smut about a Wes Anderson film, but here we are.  
> \- In my mind, Gustave is the biggest possible switch. Come on - the guy loves Romantic poetry and perfume, AND knows how to fight his way out of trouble? BIG switch energy. He likes it all ways.  
> \- That's one hell of a praise kink you've got there, Mr. Desgoffe-und-Taxis.  
> \- Whilst there's nothing in canon to suggest this is the case, I feel Gustave's very good at cuddling. He just LOOKS like he would be.  
> \- This chapter's poem: Early Affection by George Moses Horton (because even after sex, no-one's safe from Gustave's love of poetry).


End file.
